A ROHAN GHOST STORY
by Katzilla
Summary: 4 months after RotK: King Eomer faces his first challenge when an unexpected enemy returns to threaten the battered kingdom of Rohan... COMPLETED.. now completely betaed thanks to NeumeIndil!
1. A Message

**A ROHAN GHOST STORY**

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_**Disclaimer**: _

"_Lord of the Rings" and its characters are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien. I've only burrowed them to have a little fun. No money is being made with this._

_**Author's Note:**_

_I've been a fan of the "Lord of the Rings" now for 27 years (which makes me feel very old right now!), and the wonderful movies Peter Jackson made from the books are a fulfillment of one of my dreams, finally sparking enough creativity in me to make my first attempt at a fanfic in this realm (I've written plenty of fan fiction in another genre before). _

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As it is my firm opinion that Éomer is severely under-represented fan fiction-wise, I'm making a start with him... plus Karl Urban is simply too delicious to look at. _

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There is also a sequel (sort of) available now on this site, too, under the title "TWILIGHT OF THE GODS", a co-production with Timmy2222. Thanks go to Tanja and Timmy2222 for their invaluable help with this story, and also to NeumeIndil for the epic task of betaing and helping me not to come across like an idiot._

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**Story Note:**_

_Post-RotK, approx.5 months after the end of the Ring War._ _This is going to be a very dark, slightly AU-story. _

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**Chapter 1: A Call for Aid**

It was a clear, but stormy day in the Riddermark. The autumn sun blazed out of a blue sky, but its strength was already fading and could not warm the strong winds that raged through the broad valley on the outskirts of the Ered Nimrais leading to Edoras. With them, the first whispered promises of a long and frosty winter arrived: a winter the people of Rohan were facing with greater worries than usual. The Ring War had cost them dearly in men and stock, and many a village had not been able to cultivate their fields due to the turmoil of war and resulting lack of experienced and hardened workers. Their cattle and other farm animals - sheep, pigs, goats, chicken - animals that had supplied their daily food, had been severely ravaged by orcs and the White Wizard's Uruk-hai, as well as the assaults of the Dunlendings. Game was traditionally scarce in the plains, and there were many doubts among the elders as to how they would survive the grim months that lay before them. Gondor would help, some were saying. Gondor and Ithilien would send them food. Surely they would not let their old and re-found ally starve, but even to the most optimistic people it was clear that King Elessar would not be able to send them much. Too severe were Gondor's own losses. So whoever could took to the few patches of forest Rohan had to offer to hunt down the last remainders of game, and the competition among them was fierce. Whole villages were left bereft of grown men while they went across the land in a desperate search for food, open for attack by any foe who dared to set foot in the Mark despite the fierce reputation of its people.

Among the many parties crossing the open lands, one tiny figure on a gray horse was seen racing with great haste across the plains to Edoras, dwarfed by the towering snow-capped mountains. The gray was dark with sweat, its breath a white cloud in the chilly air as it stretched under its light rider. It was exhausted, but upon the pleading touch of its rider's hand and an urgent squeeze of its thighs, the young mare responded with one last mighty effort and accelerated even more as it ran up the hill to the Golden Hall.

"Your men are ready, Sire." Gamling, head of the royal guard and now faithful servant of the new King of Rohan, was watching from behind as Éomer threw the heavy leather cloak with the cape of wolf-fur over his shoulders. "They will be waiting for you in the stables. Your horse is also being readied as we speak."

"Very well, Gamling."

Éomer found that he could hardly wait to leave the Golden Hall. This hunting trip would be his first opportunity in weeks to finally take again to the wild and exciting life under open skies he had known from childhood. He had been missing it intensely. For months after his coronation his kingly duties had kept him at Meduseld and in its near vicinity, making all necessary arrangements for the change of power in the Riddermark: meetings with the many elders and majors of the villages in his realm and the few remaining marshals of the Rohirrim., all of them eager to swear their oaths to their new king and at the same time make sure to give him a list of their various needs. One thing was found on them all: food. Supplies for the long stern winter they were facing. Éomer had heard each of them out and nodded to all of their requests, inwardly knowing all too well he was not in a position to promise them anything. As it were, the supplies in Edoras were as low as in the remainder of his kingdom, and the next promising spot to lead a hunting party to was a hard two day's ride away in the Eastfold. To hear the concerns of his people all day long without being able to help left the young king frustrated and feeling powerless, a feeling he greatly despised.

So it had been with great relief that he heard the news from one of the scouts he had sent away a week earlier. It looked like they had found a pocket of forest which the orcs and Uruk-hai had missed in their rage, and deer, elk and wild boar were plentiful there and just waiting to be taken. With luck, they would even find one of the rare wild Eastfold oxen. One of them would be enough to feed all of Edoras for at least a week.

Éomer was looking forward to the hunt. The rage and frustration of not being able to help his people and being confined to the luxurious, but nevertheless limited, halls of his ancestors needed an outlet, and exercise and sword practice simply could not provide it.

"You have been waiting for this opportunity for a long time; have you not, my Lord?" Gamling said with a slight, understanding smile that deepened as Éomer turned his head in surprise, his dark eyebrows drawn together.

"Is it so obvious? Or - wait..." The trace of a smirk tugged at his mouth as he stuffed a few more of his belongings into a bag. "You have known my sister and me far too long."

"Indeed. Both of you have always needed the wide open skies. I remember how hard it was to keep the two of you in Edoras when you were but children. There was more than one occasion on which we had to turn the entire city upside down to find you while the troubled king was waiting. Most memorably of course the incident in which you took your then ten year old sister on a day ride into the mountains."

Éomer chuckled as he reached for his leather gloves.

"I shall never forget the lecture our uncle gave me when we returned. All of Edoras must have heard it." He raised one eyebrow. "But Éowyn enjoyed our ride so much, I believe the trouble afterwards was well worth it." Lost in memory, he paused for a moment. Once again, Gamling seemed to be able to look right into his mind and read the melancholic thoughts there.

"We all miss her, my Lord. Her laughter was always a welcome sound and sight in these halls." He stopped himself, thinking of how rare the sight of the White Lady laughing - or only smiling - actually had been in those last, desperate years of Gríma Wormtongue's secret reign, and felt forced to say something uplifting to chase the bitter thought away. "But we all shall meet her again when she comes to your wedding next summer. Now, I suppose that thought will conquer any feelings of loss and sadness you carry around with you."

"Indeed," Éomer replied, stifling his natural and somewhat unenthusiastic reaction. As a sign of the newly-welded alliance with Gondor and King Elessar, he was going to marry Lothíriel of Dol Amroth on Midsummer of next year. It was a marriage out of duty, not of love, as he had not yet made the acquaintance of his soon-to-be queen. She had been described to him as beautiful, delicate and almost Elven, something he - coming from a people of peasants and warriors - could not figure for himself at all. It was the usual way that monarchs married, yet Éomer dreaded it. Pushing the thought away yet again, he slipped on his gloves with more force than necessary. "Thank you, Gamling. I appreciate your efforts at lightening my mood. I know it must be hard for you, too, having lost my uncle and now having to handle his difficult nephew."

The guard shook his head in negation, a calm, content expression on his face.

"You have nothing to apologise for, my lord. I understand that your new duties would sometimes feel like a prison to you... Maybe it will help you to know that the people think of you as a worthy king so far."

For a fleeting moment, Éomer looked very young and intimidated by the shadow of his great predecessors and expectations his people had concerning his reign, but then the firmness returned to his dark eyes, and he gave the older man a little, appreciative nod.

"You seem to know a lot about our people."

"As your advisor, is it not my task? It is always important to know what your people say about you, and I am glad I can provide you with their favourable words. There was hardly a day when your uncle did not ask me for them, too. A great ruler distinguishes himself by not having his people serve him, but serving his people, and to hear their voices, he needs many ears. I am providing but two of them."

Éomer's hand landed heavily on his shoulder.

"He was lucky to have you, Gamling. Just like I am. You served my uncle well, and I would be honoured to share his experience." Éomer adjusted his belt and the cloak and turned around in search for his bow. "Even if our relation has changed, I want you to always tell me your true opinion in any business I bring to you. Never tell me what I want to hear, or what you think I want to hear, just because I am your king now. You know of my headstrong reputation, so I might need to hear wise words repeatedly and forcefully to really listen to them." He looked up in time to see his advisor's smile deepen.

"I shall remember your words when the occasion arises. As for the time being, my opinion is that you are fulfilling your duties as deems fit for an heir of Eorl. Except for this hunting party, maybe..." He interrupted himself, but it was already too late. The good-natured look had fallen from his king's face and been replaced by the determined expression Gamling was familiar with. It usually meant that discussion was about as useful as running headlong into a stone wall. "Putting yourself in danger to feed your people is a noble deed, but not expected of you. You have enough men under your command who would be willing to go instead -"

"But-"

"-but since it could also very well be the last opportunity for you to ride out and escape your duties for a few days before spring, nobody in his right mind would attempt to convince you otherwise. It would mean that, in addition to the cold, darkness and storms outside, we would have to live with a very ill-tempered ruler inside these halls for at least three months. Nobody could wish for that to happen." Gamling fell silent and held his breath, inwardly praying he had not gone too far as he felt the king's piercing stare on him. Éomer was known to be open for a brand of straightforward, rough humour, but maybe... The moment stretched and became uncomfortable, as Éomer's expression remained unreadable, but then it slowly turned into a wicked, knowing smirk. Gamling dared to breathe again.

"I see my words have already done their work, Gamling. What a fool I was by thinking I would have to tell you how to handle me." The king took his quiver from a hook in the wall and slung it, then went for the bow, briefly casting a glance back at his still waiting advisor. "But rest assured, there has never been a deer or elk I came across in all of my hunts which posed a threat to me."

"I was more thinking of the Eastfold oxen and wild boars, my king, but now I am convinced that you could kill them with your bare hands - or a mere glance."

Both laughed, then Éomer nodded.

"Go to Erkenbrand then, and tell him I shall meet him at the market square. No need to meet in the crowded stables."

"Good hunting to you, my king. May your party be blessed with success and may all of you return safely." Gamling bowed and retreated out of the dressing room.

Éomer nodded his appreciation and - after a short moment of lost contemplation - headed over to where his sword expectantly hung in its sheath. Smiling to himself in anticipation, he picked them up and slung them. The familiarity of their weight felt good. He was a warrior, a man of action, just like his uncle before him. Théoden had been a very active ruler in his time, and he planned to be the same. For a moment, his eyes fell on the banner on the wall directly in front of him, and he paused, taken in by the image of the White horse on emerald green: the kingly banner of the House of Eorl. It was ancient, and a long line of kings before him had carried it into battle. Now it was his time to do it justice. An intimidating thought, but Éomer was fiercely determined never to fail his people. It was an oath he had sworn to himself the first time when he became a soldier at the age of sixteen, renewed during the time when his uncle slipped into darkness through the devilry of Gríma Wormtongue and the White Wizard, and once again when he had been banished from the Kingdom, protecting the land with the few loyal men left to him even though he wasn't entitled to its protection anymore.

It was no conscious act that made him extend his hand and touch the ancient velvet with his fingertips for good luck, lost in thought. Finally the moment passed, and he drew his sword and went through a few fluid exercise moves. It felt good in his hands, ready.

'_Let the wild boars come,'_ he thought "_After Helm's Deep, the Pelennor Fields and the Black Gate, there is nothing left in all of Middle Earth that could terrify me.'_

Sheathing the steel blade, Éomer gave the room one last thorough glance and decided he was ready. His confident steps echoed in the corridor as he made his way to the Great Hall, where a disturbance could be heard. Four voices: Gamling and two of his doorwardens. And a higher, breathless, female one, yelling in the rolling rhythm of a particularly old Rohirric dialect only incorporated by the nomadic herdsmen of Rohan these days.

"The king! Please, I must speak to the king!"

The sound of that voice was familiar, even if he could not put a name to it. Yet its sound of urgency and desperation gave him chills. Something horrible must have happened somewhere in his kingdom. Frightened by the thought of what it might be, Éomer hastened his steps and entered the main hall.

"What is going on?"

The continued disturbance had attracted the attention of other guards and servants, and it was only in the middle of the crowd that the king caught a glimpse of actual fighting going on. A small figure in a wide cape of scruffy-looking fur was wrestling with his guards, the difference of their build making the fight an absurd sight. By all rights, she should not have had even a remote chance of freeing herself, but upon his puzzled shout and the frozen pause that followed it, the tiny figure freed herself from the guards' grip and flung herself at him with a force born out of desperation.

"Éomer! Éomer! We need your help! You must hear me out!" She crashed against his chest, a whirlwind of fur, blond, matted hair, ragged clothes smelling of horse and sweat and a dirt and tear-streaked face, she raised to meet his questioning stare as he seized her sticky, slick wrists. Recognition struck him like lightning, even though it must have been four years since he last saw her. She had been but a girl then. One of the nomads who lived with and took care for the great herds of the Rohirric war-horses. He remembered that she had been there on the day of the ritual, watching with pride the great grey stallion she had helped to raise, his beloved Firefoot, choose him over all the warriors who had been standing in the middle of the herd, waiting to have the horses they would go to war with to approach them, looking happy for him. She could have been only twelve then.

"Elana?"

"Éomer! Please, don't throw me out! There is something very ill going on in the Mark, and we need your help!"

Éomer felt the questioning stare of the Royal Guard and, letting go of one of the girl's wrists, held out his hand in a calming gesture to keep them back. Another stern look was enough to remind the other onlookers that they had other business to tend to which he expected them to take care of - now. Silently they left, but whispers sure enough started to flow through the vast hall as soon as they believed themselves out of earshot. Éomer lowered his hand - and frowned as he recognised the dark red stains on his palm.

"What is it, Elana? You are hurt!" He turned her still gloved hands in his and realised they were saturated with blood. "What happened?"

Her pale blue eyes met his with a look of utter desperation.

"It is nothing. I am not important, but they are killing our horses, Éomer! They are killing our great herd! Please, you must help us!" Her intense gaze held his for a moment longer, a moment of stunned shock, before her knees buckled, and she collapsed into the king's arms.

"Here, Sire, lay her here. I will send for the healer at once." Gamling pointed at the bed in the guest chamber and waved at one of the children he could see sticking their heads curiously out from behind a pillar. The children of Edoras were educated by the elders, and often sent to the Great Hall for a variety of light chores which taught them about the way of life in Rohan. Tending their horses and keeping their tack intact, running errands, helping in the kitchen, cleaning... the variety was endless, and the children, while at first intimidated by the glory of the ancient hall of their forefathers, grew to enjoy their tasks often to a point where they came to perform them even on days when they were relieved from duty.

One of the smaller girls took the task as hers and approached.

"My lord?"

"Élwyn, it is?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Go find Yalánda and send her here. Then go to the kitchen and ask them for bread, broth and tea, and bring it to us." Gamling watched the girl take off like a playful foal, thankful for her important duty, then turned around to watch his king approach the bed and carefully lower his burden onto the sheets.

It seemed to Éomer that the girl barely weighed more than a feather, and only as he rose again did he notice her pale, gaunt look and the dark circles under her still closed eyes. A quick survey showed no injuries except for her hands, so little question remained as to what had caused her to faint.

"It must be exhaustion. Her kin dwell somewhere further south in the valleys of the Ered Nimrais at this time of year. She must have been riding hard for days to bring us this news. Look!" Carefully, he lifted one of her hands and pulled what was left of the glove from her fingers to reveal an open, bleeding wound where the reins had cut into her palm. He laid it back onto her stomach and met his advisor's worried glance. Behind him, the girl moaned, but did not wake.

"You know her, Sire?"

"Aye. She belongs to the herdsmen. She was but a child when I last saw her, but- " He interrupted himself. "She still is." Inhaling heavily, Éomer recalled the girl's last words before she had sunk into his arms. "'They are killing our horses, she said. '_They'_?" He looked up. "Who could she mean? Orcs? There are no orcs left in the Riddermark. We killed them all. No orc has been spotted in the entire kingdom for months!"

"I do not know, my Lord, but it troubles me. Orcs we could handle. But if it is some other fell creature -"

"She said '_they_'. Dunlendings? Could it be them? I would have believed we drove them away once and for all."

"We do not know, my lord," a weak voice came from behind him, and Éomer turned to find the girl awake. "We neither saw nor heard anything during that night, but when we returned to the meadow to look for our horses four days ago, the ground was soaked with their blood, and there were dead and slashed bodies for as far as the eye could see, and the few they did not kill yet are wild with terror and unapproachable even for us."

"'The few they did not kill'? How many are left?"

"No more than seventy, my lord. They are almost all gone. It was a bloodbath none of us has ever seen, not even during the war. The stench of death hangs over our valley like a black cloud. We would have burned the carcasses, but we hoped the Rohirrim would know who it was by looking at them. Please, Éomer - my king - you have seen our herd in all its glory. You ride one of our steeds. The sight of what is left of them would bring tears even to your eyes. This is our darkest hour. You must help us!"

Éomer stared at her, but could not bring himself to envision the image she described. When last he had been to the great herd, there must have been over one thousand horses. Of course that visit had been well before the Ring War, and the numerous orc-raids, the battle of Helm's Deep and, at last, the great battle of the Pelennor Fields around Minas Tirith had taken a heavy toll on both men and beasts, but only seventy left of a thousand?

The young king's blood turned to ice water as he followed that thought all the way through to its ugly end: Yes, they had two more main herds, one in the far Westfold, the other one in the very East, but none had been as large as the one Elana's tribe was guarding, not nearly, and theirs was the only one left in which the blood of the Mearas was still running strong. What if their line ended now? What if the killing spread into the other parts of the Mark, as well? Wouldn't whoever was doing it, men, orc or beast, move on once they had destroyed everything in one place? Without horses, their culture would crumble. They relied on them to cultivate their fields. They relied on them for the hunt. They relied on them for trade, to cover the vast spaces of their land. And they relied on them in battle. Without horses, they were defenceless. From the six thousand Rohirrim on the Pelennor, not even one sixth had returned. Around nine hundred mounted warriors were all that was left of Rohan's once mighty army. Even without someone killing their horses, the kingdom would need years to recover from the blows it had received.

"My lord?" The girl sat up and seized his hand. "Please..."

Éomer came to his feet as he heard footsteps approach the room from the Great Hall and looked down on their unexpected guest.

"Do not be troubled, Elana of the herdsmen. Your decision to come here was the right one. I will not allow such villainy to go on inside our borders. Our herds, and especially yours, are our livelihood, and we will protect them. Whoever brought that grief upon us shall soon wish he had never set foot in the Riddermark." He turned to the patiently waiting Gamling. "Get me Erkenbrand and Éothain and tell them to meet me in the hall. We need to hold a council."

"I presume that the hunt is called off then, Sire?"

"You presume wrongly. Winter is approaching fast, and we cannot delay it. We will have to divide our forces. To find the best way, I need to speak with my marshals. Bring them to me."


	2. The Killing Fields

**Chapter 2: The Killing Fields**

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It was afternoon before Gamling returned from the councill to look after their unexpected guest. To his surprise, he found the chamber he had brought her to empty and the sheets of the bed exchanged. Confused, he turned around and walked with great strides back into the main hall where he found a group of children sitting on one of the benches and listening intently to the ancient tale of Eorl the Young and his mighty steed Felaróf - told by their guest. Amused and relieved, he crossed his arms and stood in the shadow of the closest pillar, listening to the girl's rolling dialect.

"But he vowed to avenge his father and set out on a long hunt for the horse, and all the people of Rohan expected him to kill it. But when he finally had cornered the great stallion, a miracle happened..."

"'Come hither, Mansbane,' he spoke, 'and get a new name!' And the horse looked towards Eorl and came and stood before him, and Eorl said: 'Felaróf I name you. You loved your freedom, and I do not blame you for that. But now you owe me a great weregild, and you shall surrender your freedom to me until your life's end.'" Gamling stepped out of the shadow and saw the children's heads turning his way at the sound of his voice, their eyes growing huge. Only rarely did they have the opportunity to hear one of the ancient stories of the Mark from the chief of the Royal guard. Elana took up his slight smile. She was a commoner, but their love for their horses tied them all together.

"Then Eorl mounted him, and Felaróf submitted; and Eorl rode him home without bit or bridle, and he rode him in that fashion ever after. The horse understood all that men said, though he would allow no man but Eorl to mount him. He was the first of the Mearas, the wisest and strongest of horses," she ended the story, delighted by the guard's participation. "You have looked for me, my lord?"

"You appear to be better." One stern glance at the children told them that the hour of Rohan lore was over, and they went away, no doubt replaying the story they had just heard and passing it on to their friends.

"I am. I just needed to rest, and a little food your servants were kind enough to offer me. I am rather embarrassed that I came to the Golden Hall in such a wild manner, but I had been riding for three days and three nights with only little rest, and no food for the last day. I did not dare to stop."

Gamling pointed his chin at her dressed hands. "What about your wounds? Did Yalánda take good care of them, my child?"

Elana shrugged.

"It is nothing. They will be healed in a few days. But please, my lord, what can you tell me? What will the king do? Will he help us?"

"He will indeed, Elana of the herdsmen." Gamling's gaze went over the hall's entrance, through which sunlight flooded in and motioned her to follow him outside. "As a former Marshal of the Rohirrim, the king knows better than most how dependent we are of the service you and your kind supply. Our herds are our livelihood, and our first duty must be to protect them. Tomorrow at the first light of day, the king and an éored of twenty will ride out to meet your people. You may follow them as soon as you have fully recovered."

The girl's face lit up, and it was not only the golden light of the afternoon sun as they stepped outside.

"The king will ride with us?"

"Aye, child, he will. Your plight appears to be very close to the king's heart."

"I shall be ready to go with them by tomorrow," Elana beamed, excited that her people were important enough to the king to ride out with his own éored. "All I need is a good night's rest. My lord... I do not know how to thank you. This is so much more than I could have hoped for." She started to sink to her knees, but Gamling would not allow her to.

"I am not the king, child, and not even Éomer would accept a bow from you. It was a brave thing you did, that long, hard ride all by yourself to alert us."

"How could I not come?" She turned away, the shadow of memory passing over her gaunt, young face. "I love our horses. I raised many of them myself. It hurts me more than I can say to think of what happened, and if, by coming here, I can prevent the same fate for the others, it will be the best deed I ever do." Elana swallowed, her eyes taking in the beauty of the wide valley. "I just wish there were more left." A gust of wind blew her matted hair into her face, and she smoothed it away, noticing the line of riders and wagons slowly making their way eastward far below them. "The king looked ready to leave this morning. I hope I did not keep him from some other urgent errand."

"There can be no errand more urgent than yours, child, and there are enough riders in this city to fulfil more than one." Gamling's gaze glided over the stables. "Your mare has been taken good care of. She should be able to carry you when you head back with the king's men tomorrow. If you want to, you can go and visit her now."

Her eyes widened.

"I - I would be allowed to see the royal stables? But-" She tugged at her stained tunic. "-the way I look -"

With a mild smile, the guard shoved her gently in the direction of the stairs.

"I honestly do not believe the horses will care, young lady."

It was early morning when they left Edoras. The sun had barely begun its ascent in the cloudy sky, and there were only few people to be seen as the king's éored thundered down the hill on its way to the old path into the White Mountains. Twenty there were, under the king's and his first marshal Éothain's command, their faces stern and determined, clad in full mail, richly embroidered cuirasses, some carrying shields and spears that reflected the sunlight, some only armed with their swords. They were an intimidating sight to all people they passed. Twenty battle-experienced warriors, determined to put an end to the gruesome occurrences they had learned about, and a small figure on a light-boned dark-grey mare in their midst, moving at a pace none other than a Rohirric horse could have matched over the long distance that lay yet before them. The thunder of their hooves still reverberated in the mountains even after they had passed out of sight.

It was already dark when they reached their night camp, a frequently used, well-equipped cave set in a winding gorge shortly behind the first mountain pass. Everything they needed for a comfortable night despite the chilly autumn temperatures was available. Dry wood for a warming fire, sheltered and easily defendable sleeping places, some basic supplies like water, dried bread and fruits, and even a separate, wide cave with a straw-covered floor for their horses, easily accessible through the main cave.

Éomer was glad to finally take off his helmet, and he would be at least equally glad to shed the rest of the heavy armour he was wearing. He was fatigued, but it was a good fatigue. They had covered a lot of ground today. It felt good to be in motion again, to be active instead of having to linger in the Great Hall, listening to complaints and requests all day long. Yet, before he was able to sit down and have a cup of wine and some food at the campfire with his éored, there was one unspoken rule to follow, first, a rule that was essential to the kingdom of Rohan, an ancient law: '_Take care of your horse, first. Take off his burden, feed him and let him rest, and he will thank you with strength, courage and heart.' _Nobody ever second-guessed that law, and Éomer wasn't about to, either. He removed the artfully crafted saddle and blanket from his steed's back and laid them to the side, just like the rest of his men further back in the cave, but in reaching for the bridle, he encountered difficulties as the grey snorted and thrust up his head, pushing against his rider with the weight of his muscular body.

"Stop it, mad horse, or I shall leave that bridle on you!" Éomer pushed back, to no avail, and sighed to himself. "I am beginning to think that it must be the blood of a mule, not meara blood that flows in your veins. Will you hold still now?" Playfully, he slapped the great stallion on the nose and ducked the quick attempt at retribution as Firefoot's teeth clapped shut only inches over his right shoulder. "You!"

A well-known prickle in the back of his neck caused him to turn. Sure enough, he was being watched. The girl. Éomer had no idea for how long she had been standing there, watching their by now usual play, which he felt must have been a less-than-kingly sight. He coughed, feeling caught, and tried to compensate for it with a stern voice.

"Elana." A hard slap on Firefoot's neck brought the stallion to his senses. "What can I do for you?" He looked back to where the first of his men were lighting the fire. The girl's eyes were gleaming with pride as she eyed the grey.

"He has grown since I last saw him. He has become a mighty horse, one that befits the King of the Mark." She dared to take a step closer. "I hope he has served you well so far, Sire."

"Aye, he has." Éomer followed her gaze and placed a hand on his steed's neck, letting it rest there while the other finally removed the bridle. "He appears to have his own mind at times, but then, so do I. We are fit for each other. I would not exchange him for another, not even Shadowfax, were he still available." Bending to pick up a bundle of old straw from the ground, he cast a sidelong glance and saw the girl's face flush.

"He was the first foal I hand-raised. I was nine at the time." Her gaze rested lovingly on the grey before she finally acknowledged the king's presence with a small turn of the head. "Do you think he remembers me, too?"

Rohan war-horses usually only suffered their own riders to approach and touch them, but the stallion appeared to be completely relaxed in her presence. Éomer felt he could let her try, and motioned her over. Carefully, she followed and held out her hand for Firefoot to sniff, almost laughing with joy as she felt the warm breath from his nostrils on her palm. Slowly, she placed her fingers on his nose and let them move in tiny circles over the smooth skin, something he had always greatly enjoyed when he had still been with her and her tribe, and again, after all the years of war and battle, the grey closed his eyes in delight and allowed her to touch him. Éomer watched in wonder.

"It appears that he does." Smiling, he offered her the handful of straw he had picked up to rub Firefoot dry with. "Would you like to take care of him?"

She beamed, her fingers subconsciously caressing an old scar on the stallion's brow. "I would love to, my lord." Passing under the horse's head, she accepted the straw and began to methodically wipe Firefoot's rump, content with her task. "Thank you."

Éomer watched her for moment longer, then turned to look back at the men, who were bursting into laughter further back in the close-by cave. They had already assembled around the slowly catching fire and were looking his way with amused expressions.

"I will let you know when the food is ready. Tomorrow is going to be another long day, and the day after, just as well. We are going to need our strength." He walked off.

The sun had already set behind the mountains when, on the third day of their travel, they arrived in the gorge that had for ages been the sheltered winter retreat of the herds. Here, they were protected from the icy gusts that otherwise ravaged the plains and challenged every man and beast that dared to live in the wild during the dark season of the year. It was a peaceful, protected place, where even the grass was still green and neither burnt by the merciless summer-sun, nor faded to a lifeless green-brown by the first frosts, and yet an oppressive silence hung over it like the shadow of a dark cloud. There were no voices to be heard, no rustling of leaves, not even the singing of birds. It was as if they had entered a forsaken place.

They approached the ring of tents at the end of the gorge, set there shortly before the mountain walls retreated to form a long, sheltered valley at the north-end, in a long line, single-file. No one was to be seen. They rode in silence, paying tribute to the oppressive atmosphere and the prominent stench of death and decay, which became stronger with each step and planted a cold dread into their hearts... and the hearts of their steeds.

Éomer found it difficult to force Firefoot on. The great grey who had fearlessly carried him into battle at Helm's Deep, against the onslaught of the Mumakil on the Pelennor Fields and an army of all the fell creatures this earth held, now shuddered between his thighs, and from the animal's flared nostrils came a hard breath that could not be the result of their long ride. They had proceeded slowly over the last few leagues, not wanting to exhaust their steeds yet when unknown peril lay before them. No doubt the grey both smelled and sensed the massacre that awaited them further down the valley. Firefoot came to a sudden halt, both front legs rammed into the ground, and neighed. He would not go further.

Éomer gestured his éored to stop and as he looked back, he found that his men were experiencing similar difficulties with their mounts. Placing a hand on Firefoot's neck, he felt the shudders even more clearly, and it troubled him deeply. Never before had he felt such terror in his animal ally. Upon the sound of steps coming up to him from behind, he heard Éothain's voice.

"The horses are not willing to go further, my lord. We could force them, but I'd rather not. They are clearly terrified."

"It is the smell." Éomer had detected the small group of people next to the tents looking their way, but did not move closer. "The smell of their dead. Surely they already know much better what happened in this valley than we do. I do not blame them for not wanting to see this, but we need to know." He ran his hand over his mount's neck and whispered a few soothing words into the twitching ears, before he urged him silently on with the pressure of his thighs.

"I will ride ahead and let my people know of their great guest." Elana nodded at him and forced her mare into a gallop for the last, short distance.

Éomer tried again. At last, the grey took a hesitant step. Another one. The shuddering worsened, but finally Firefoot followed his rider's gentle urging. Slowly, they approached the waiting people. It was a short line of people, consisting mostly of children between five and fifteen summers old, who were now joined by an old man exiting a tent after their young guide's excited shouts. More faces appeared, skeptically and mistrustfully peeping from the other tents at the approaching riders, hardened and weathered by the elements and life in the wild, their long, flaxen hair either flowing behind them in the mild breeze or tied into braids. They were dressed in stained woolen rags, their faces dirty, but their pale blue eyes were directed at Éomer in fierce inquisitiveness as they craned their necks back to look up to him and his men. Their king had come, but would he be able to help them against the evil that had befallen them?

The old man the riders had seen first stepped forward. His back was slightly bowed from age, his face tired and dreary-looking, as he sank to his knees; a gesture which was instantly imitated by the children, who even then continued to gape at the éored's regal outfit. Never had they seen such impressive guests.

"Westu Éomer hál! My name is Fréod, son of Farudwýne. The people of the Great Herd greet you and thank you for your coming." Slowly coming to his feet, he cast Elana a quick glance which told Éomer that he was probably related to the girl and thankful for her return, even if the place she had returned to was not a safe place to be. The king nodded his appreciation and, giving a sign to his éored, slipped out of his saddle.

"Thank Elana for her endurance and courage. The way to Edoras is long and, as it seems, still dangerous. We came as fast as we could. What news do you have for us?"

"Alas, very ill news. There was another attack just last night." The soldiers' lips became grim lines. "We lost yet more horses... and our two guards."

"What? Who was it?" The girl's face paled as she dismounted and came to a stop in front of Fréod, pleadingly taking up his hand: "Grandfather, please, you must tell me!"

"Elana, sweet child-" He tried to embrace her, but she kept him at arm length, pressing his hand in distress.

"Tell me, Grandfather!"

"Galwyne and Bèorling." He did not dare look into her eyes, but pulled her close as she buried her face on his shoulder in desperation, just when silent sobs beginning to shake her thin frame. The young men had been like brothers to her."I am sorry, child."

It was an awkward moment. Éomer was at a loss for words. He had believed that war and sorrow were over for his people, but maybe there would never be a moment when all evil would truly be defeated and the land safe. Granting the girl and the old man a moment longer to grieve, he kept his head bowed in respect to the dead, the only sounds the breathing of the horses, the creaking and low clanging of their bridles and saddles, and the sobbing of the mourning people in front of him and further back in the tents. A sideways glance to the entrance of the valley showed him that it was already filling with shadow, and that daylight would soon desert them, so he finally cleared his throat and spoke up with a grave voice.

"I am sorry for your loss, Fréod, son of Farudwýne. If it is in our power, we shall put an end to it this very night. Can you tell us what we are up against?"

The old man shook his head.

"I wish that I could, but yet again, we did not see them. We only heard the death-cries of our horses at the far end of the valley in the middle of the night. After what had happened six nights ago, we dared not to go there to find out,and in the morning, we found the two men we had left as guards dead and horribly slashed. There is no one and nothing left to tell us who our foe is."

"Men or beasts? This at least you should be able to tell."

"I am afraid I cannot. I have never seen anything like this in my life, even though I spent all my years in the wild and know how to read tracks. The grass has been trampled and the ground beneath it is too firm; you cannot find a single clear trace. As for the carcasses..." He inhaled deeply, and his eyes widened as he recalled what he had seen that morning. "Go and look for yourselves. The horses have been mauled and slashed, and it would appear that wild beasts, wolves or wargs, perhaps, did it, yet I have never seen a pack of wolves cause so much damage to so many horses. And you know the courage of our horses, my king: they have Meara-blood in their veins. They would have stood against a pack of wolves. Maybe they would have lost a few among them, but over three-hundred... no." He shook his head and followed Éomer's grim look towards the valley of death.

"Look for yourself, my lord. Maybe you will be able to read something from the bodies that we have been unable to see. Yet make sure you return ere the daylight is gone, because they always come at night. And you must be weary and hungry from your long ride, too. We do not have much here, and I am certain you have much better at Edoras, but we would feel honoured to share our food with you. I will go immediately and tell the lads to roast a pig."

"We came to help, not to rob you of your scarce winter supplies, Fréod," Éomer rejected, raising his hand. "Your offer is generous, yet we cannot accept it. We know how little food there is available these days in the Mark. We brought our own supplies with us. Let us share a cup of wine when we return, if you will, but you will need that pig to feed your people ere the spring sets in." He turned to face his men. "I want five men to accompany me when I go in. The others stay here, tend to our horses and see if we can help these people in any other fashion. If we are watched, I do not want them to know yet how many we are." On second thought, he opened his cuirass and shed it along with the chain mail he wore. He also took off his helmet with the white horsetail and removed the artfully crafted saddle and the royal blanket from Firefoot's back, laying everything on the ground. "I also do not want them to know who has come to avenge their deeds. Éothain, Berond, Folca, Hámas and Léod, you come with me."

The named followed his example and shed their armour, stripping themselves of all telltale items, so that they would enter the valley looking like commoners. Satisfied, Éomer turned to the herdsman once more.

"I know it will be hard for you to see the wake of this bloodbath once again, but in order to put an end to it, a guide would be most helpful to us."

"I will come with you." Elana freed herself of her grandfather's arms. Dreading the task she was taking, she had nonetheless decided that she would not falter. She wanted this nightmare to end, so it had to be done. "Even if my heart freezes at the thought, I will endure it for the sake of those which are left. Yet I cannot force my mare to carry me there. It would be asking too much of her. She is still young, and not battle-hardened like your own steeds. She has never smelled blood or heard the death cries of her kind before until six days ago, when she only barely escaped the massacre herself."

"Then ride with me." The king had already remounted his great grey and offered the girl a hand. She accepted it and slid into place behind him, feeling comfortable on the horse's bare back. Éomer turned the stallion in the direction of the valley entrance. He still sensed Firefoot's reluctance, but knew he would carry him there nevertheless. "We will be back soon for that cup of wine you offered us, Fréod. Until then, I ask you to take good care of our horses. Most of them were raised here, too." He pressed his heels into Firefoot's flanks and forced him into a slow gallop.

The shadows had already swallowed the entire valley when they entered, but yet it was still light enough to show the riders the full extent of the slaughter they had so far only heard about. Yet, as the king reined in his steed to slow him to a walk and, finally, to a halt, Éomer found no words to describe what lay before them. He had seen plenty of carnage on Rohan's soil and in the Battle of Gondor, had experienced the stench of blood and decay many times before and walked over battlefields among thousands of dead, yet this was a sight which was somehow worse in a way he could hardly define.

It was unexpected; not the scene of a great battle where one came prepared and would not allow the feelings to affect one. Yet what they were seeing was nothing less than the slaughter of innocent creatures at a number too great for his mind to comprehend, even if his eyes showed him the carcasses strewn on the meadow for as far as he could see. Grey, white, bay and dark silhouettes lying unmoving on the ground, some great, some small, stallions, mares and foals alike, reduced to dead flesh. Many forms were twisted into positions that were too terrible to look at, their still forms slashed and laid open, dark stains marring their hides and drenching the grass on which they lay. Among them and on top of them, scavenging birds picked at the open wounds, ravens with blood-encrusted heads hopping around on the once proud creatures, fighting for the best pieces, and yet even more circling the sky above them waiting to be let in on the feast. Their greedy cries and the flapping of their wings with the buzzing of myriads of flies were the only sounds to be heard in the otherwise leaden silence, and over all hung the pungent stench of death.

The enormity of what had happened in this valley turned Éomer to stone. At his back, he felt the silent sobbing of their young guide, but it seemed to come to him from a great distance, just like the anguished snort of his steed as he tossed his head in protest. Instinctively, Éomer lowered his hand to the quivering grey's neck. Only dimly was he aware of his men coming to a stop beside him, none of them able to utter a word, their own steeds neighing and attempting to back away from the scene against their riders' will. The moment stretched and lingered, holding them captives in its terrible prison, until the girl's cry woke them out of their stupor.

"Aéras! Oh no!" She slipped from the grey's back and ran over to the still form of a once white horse that lay in the middle of the meadow.

Éomer turned his head to meet Éothain's gaze and see how his men were taking it. His marshal's frozen face was a mirror of his own feelings. For a long time, there did not seem to be enough air for them to draw a breath and form words.

"Whoever this was, they will pay dearly," a deep voice came from behind him, shaking with both terror and fury. Éomer recognised it as Léod's and turned around. The young, grave scout's keen eyes were already fixed on the surrounding mountains, searching for their foes.

"First, we need to find them." Éothain followed his gaze up to the circling ravens. "But I have to agree with that old man's words: this does not look like the work of wild beasts. Wolves, and even wargs, only kill as much as they can eat. They do not slaughter entire herds out of sheer bloodlust. Yet most of these horses are, except for the wounds that brought their death, untouched. Look!" He pointed at the carcass of a strong-boned bay next to them. A big bite had been taken out of his throat, but apart from that, the horse was unmarred. One bite had killed him, and then he had been left to rot on the ground.

"Let us see what else we can detect ere the daylight is entirely gone." Éomer's gaze glided from the dead animal up to the circling ravens, and then further up to the surrounding mountains. His voice sounded hollow as despair and cold fury battled for reign over his emotions. His hands longed for the touch of his sword, and an enemy thrown in front of him to take his rage out on, right now. Yet none presented themselves to claim responsibility for the slaughter, and reluctantly, Éomer pressed his heels into Firefoot's flanks to proceed further into the valley of death. "Elana?" He motioned the girl to come back and held a hand out to help her up.

"I am sorry, Éomer. That mare was the mother of my own horse. She was one of the few survivors of the first attack. They must have killed her last night." She swallowed and was unable to go on. Unable to look at the carnage any longer, she closed her eyes and breathed shallowly through her mouth, but the smell of blood would not abate.

They rode on in silence, carefully choosing their path through the dead horses, halting here and there to take - against their instincts - a more thorough look in hopes of finding answers to the riddle. The further they rode, however, the clearer it became to them that the old man had been right: this had been killing for the sake of killing. Apart from three carcasses that had been stripped of all meat, none of the other horses had been eaten from.

Twilight had already settled when they came to the distant wall of the valley, where the last of the once mighty herd had assembled, warily eyeing their approach. Éomer came to a halt and gestured his men to follow his example. He did not want to trouble the few surviving horses further, as it was clear to him even from a distance that they were wild with fear. Next to him, a broadly built grey stallion lay in front of the canyon wall, his front hooves dark with blood - and tufts of brown fur. Narrowing his eyes, Éomer dismounted and walked the few steps over to squat next to the dead animal, carefully running a finger over the congealed crust and peeling off a piece of sturdy black skin with wiry, brown hair on it. Furrowing his brow, he examined it more closely by rubbing the piece between his fingers and holding it up in front of his eyes.

"Léod?" The next moment, the scout stood at his side to see what his king had found. He did not need to take a second look to know what it was.

"Warg skin. So it is true." He looked around. "It is hard to believe. This does not look like a place wargs would like. They prefer open spaces for their hunts. And they are not suited for a life in the mountains. They are too great of stature to be comfortable with steep and narrow paths. They cannot climb well."

"Elana?" Éomer turned around. "Are there any other ways into this valley besides the one we took?"

She nodded. "Aye, there are two more, but they are just like the ones your kinsman described: mountain paths, hardly wide enough to allow a man to walk on them, and very steep. Neither wargs nor horses could not use them. The only animals that could walk on them, I dare say, would be goats. One of them lies behind that tree over there." She pointed ahead. The Rohirrim followed her gaze and saw immediately what she meant. As little as they could see of the path in the deepening twilight, it was clear that nothing as massive as a warg could have come that way.

"What about the other one?" Éothain turned around in his saddle to give the other side of the valley a more scrutinising survey, but the shadows were deepening fast now, and with the approaching darkness, the gloomy atmosphere in the valley changed to a sinister threat. The feeling of being watched from somewhere above was strong, yet not so strong that he could make out the direction it was coming from.

"It lies further back the way we came, on the other side, but it is no different." The girl's eyes were wide, and the trembling in her voice could not be missed. "We should head back now. Darkness will soon be upon us, and I do not want to be trapped in this tomb when they return."

"And we will go back." Éomer still stared down on the fallen grey. It had been a strong horse, presumably the leader, but even he had not been able to fight back hard enough to save himself. At least he had offered them a clue of what had happened to him, even if the sum of what they had seen did not add up. Ripping himself out of his brooding thoughts, Éomer turned to face his men but spoke to the girl. "We will eat and drink with your people and relax for a few more hours, and under cover of the night, we shall return in our full strength and wait for them. Whatever the solution to this riddle may be, should they decide to haunt this place yet again, they shall be taught the meaning of fury."

Taking Firefoot's reins back from the girl, he swung a leg over the grey's back and turned him around, throwing the great horse into a fast gallop. This time, his steed followed his will readily.

The moon was already on the rise when the line of twenty heavily armed riders approached the entrance of the valley, but since it was not even half full, the light it shed was scarce. Perfect cover.

On their way back to the herdsmen's tents, Éomer had noticed a long cornice on the other side of the meadow, deep and large enough to provide them with a hiding place for their night watch, which was where they were headed now. Silence hung over the blood-drenched meadow like a death blanket, lending an eerie atmosphere to the night which reminded the king of ancient ghost-stories the elders sometimes told to their eagerly listening children in the long, dark winter months. All too well, he remembered how he sat in the Golden Hall on a one particularly cold and stormy winter night, twelve or thirteen years old, listening to his uncle's deep, carrying voice tell the story of Fram slaying Scatha, the great dragon of Ered Mithrin. It had been a grim, violent story, not meant to be told to young children, which had Éowyn furious with him when he returned to their chambers afterwards, gloating and teasing his little sister when she demanded that he share the story with her.

Éowyn... for a few heartbeats, his thoughts left the valley of death and went out to the only one left of his kin. He hoped she was happy in Ithilien: happy with Faramir. She deserved to be happy. In all the long years after their parents' death he had rarely seen his sister laugh, and less so in the months and years of darkness that had followed Gríma Wormtongue's arrival. As occupied as war had kept him over the years, he had noticed how she had first found new hope at the sight of Aragorn, now King Elessar of Gondor, only to be rejected. Devastated, she had then sought death on the battlefield, where instead she found honour – and witnessed the passing of their father-like uncle.

The sight of her lying death-like among their slaughtered kinsmen next to the crushed body of Théoden had caused the sharpest pain Éomer had ever felt. It had been a moment when he had wished that madness would claim him. It had been a moment to wish death for himself. Yet, somehow, they had both survived. Even Théoden's death they had been able to put behind them. The king had been granted the honourable end he had always wanted. That was something Éomer could make his peace with. And Éowyn... she, too, had found reason to smile again. Somehow, between his departure for the Black Gate of Mordor, expecting never to return, and his unlikely survival and mankind's victory over Sauron, a miracle had happened for his sister's wounded heart, too. Love and peace of mind, it had seemed to him upon his return to the White City, had finally found her, and he was thankful for the man who had gifted her with them. Yes, he hoped his brave little sister was happy.

Somewhere up ahead, the cry of an owl pierced the leaden silence and woke the king from his musings. The cornice now lay directly ahead. They were almost upon it. Éomer turned his head, his eyes gliding over a starry sky, dark rock, a few leafless trees, the meadow, gleaming silvery under the moonlight... and the dark, lifeless forms lying on it. His lips became a thin, grim line. Whoever they were, whatever they were, he hoped the murderers would return tonight. Gúthwine was hungry for their blood, and he felt its weight on his left side, eager to be drawn.

Someone rode into his line of vision on the right. Éothain, his marshal and long-time friend, looked ready for vengeance as well. There was no trepidation over the nature or number of their enemy, no second thoughts, no uneasiness. They were ready for battle, dressed in full mail and cuirasses, armed with spears, bows and swords, an éored of twenty seasoned warriors. They had nothing to fear. Anyone but the few surviving horses of their herdsmen who trod on the grass of this valley, would die.

With this thought, they reached the cornice and dismounted, silently, secretively. It was hard to make no sound when one was clad in mail, but they largely succeeded in keeping the noise down. Their horses likewise seemed to know what was going on, for they,too, hardly gave a sound. Éomer laid a hand against Firefoot's nostrils and felt the stallion's warm breath on his skin, while his own breath trailed off as white vapour into the air. It was chilly, but there would be no fires tonight. '_Soon_,' he thought, '_soon I shall need your courage and great heart again. Help me to avenge your kin.' _

Éomer's eyes went to the other side of the mountain wall as his men settled into the cornice according to the orders he had given out while they ate and drank in the tents of the herdsmen. Blankets were unbuckled from saddles and unrolled; together with the hot broth with which Elana's tribe had filled their leathern bottles; the only means for a little warmth. This night would be long, and a three-days-ride lay behind them. There was no need for all of them to stay awake at the same time. Five at a time would do, he had decided, and set himself up for the first watch. There was no way he would be able to sleep right now anyway, too much was going through his head.

Nodding over to Léod, who shared this watch with him, Éomer rammed his spear into the ground and leaned on it until it stood firm enough to tie his steed to it. It would have seemed like an awkward solution to anyone who wasn't Rohirric, as all Firefoot needed to free himself was one powerful headshake, but Éomer knew he could count on the great grey. He had felt it on their way into the valley. The stallion was tense and ready to carry him into battle once more, all quivering and shaking gone: he would not run and ruin their cover. Neither would the others.

The owl cried again, and Éomer shifted his view to see whether he would be able to make out the bird in the darkness.

"Over there." Léod pointed towards the little grove in the middle of the valley. "The second tree to the right."

Narrowing his eyes, the king could make out a fleeting movement in the branches, then a small, dark shadow rising into the air. A grim smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Nothing escaped his men's attention. Whatever entered this valley tonight, it would not enter unnoticed.


	3. The Heart of Darkness

**Chapter 3: The Heart of Darkness**

* * *

"Théoden-King?... Uncle?"

The Great Hall of Meduseld was empty. No sounds, no smells, no signs of life could be found within the ancient walls as Éomer pushed open the doors with the last of his strength. Blood - his own and his foes' - stained his cloven cuirass and mail shirt, and as he stumbled into the hall to bring his king the tidings of their great victory on the Pelennor, his sword fell from his trembling hand and fell to the ground with a clear sound that echoed thousand fold from the stone walls. No one came to look for the source of that noise. No one asked. Éomer came to a halt. There was no one here!

And suddenly, he smelled it, so thick and poisonous, it was a mystery to him why he had not detected the smell before: smoke! The Great Hall was burning! As he turned to the side to look into the direction of the king's private chambers, he saw an inferno of flames race towards him.

"Théoden-King?" Another step deeper into the hall. The heat was intense, and there was hardly enough air left to breathe. Then, suddenly, another thought came. An agonising one. "Éowyn? Sister? Where are you?" The fire spread over the walls, upwards to the ceiling, devouring the banner of Eorl. Ancient tapestry burst into flames, then the wooden throne of Rohan caught fire. "Éowyn!"

Ripping himself out of his stupor, he made a dash for his sister's quarters, but just before he reached the door, flames shot up in front of him and blocked his way.

"Éowyn, where are you?"

Parts of the roof came down, and he stumbled backwards, shielding his eyes.

"Éomer! Éomer, help me! Help me, please!"

Her voice! Faint, but she was alive! But the sound did not come from her rooms; it sounded as if- he swivelled around just in time to see the heavy doors swing shut behind something that had just left the hall.

"I am coming, Little Bird! Hold on!"

He forced his battered body into a run and burst outside - to see all of Edoras erupt into flames. Hellfire spread over the thatched roofs and turned the buildings into furnaces, and yet nobody ran out of them. There were no screams, no crying, nothing except for the sound of hooves further down, a single horse in full gallop, trying to flee the inferno.

"Éomer!"

It was a black horse, and there was someone on its back: two figures, one in fitting black, fighting with the other while at the same time riding as if Morgoth himself was after him. Almost beyond the city walls now; the other -

"Éowyn! Éowyn! Nooo-!"

"Help me!"

"She's mine now, Éomer! You are too late! You have always been too late!" The voice burst into triumphing laughter, fading in the distance and the roar of the fire.

"Gríma!-"

Éomer woke with a start and saw a face hovering above him, laid his hand on the hilt of his sword in a heartbeat - but it was not Gríma's. Gríma... was dead. Slain in the Shire, so the people told. He would never again trouble the people of Rohan, or haunt his sister's steps.

There was worry in the pale blue eyes and the weathered, slightly lined features above him. Éomer recognised this face as his friend Éothain's.

"Éomer?" The other man narrowed his eyes. "A bad dream?" He placed a hand on his king's shoulder in reassurance. Only now did Éomer notice the thunder of his heart and his ragged breathing. Embarrassed at being caught in a weak moment, he sat up and shook off Éothain's hand.

"Did I say anything?" '_Or scream?_' If - through a moment of unawareness - he had thwarted their plan - but the marshal shook his head.

"No. I just saw it in your eyes when you woke." Éothain swallowed and turned his head. "Something is going on. The atmosphere has changed."

His words mesmerised Éomer, yet as the young king came to his feet, his limbs stiff from the cold ground, he felt it, too. The light had gone. The moon had wandered far towards the east, but it was now barely visible behind a thick layer of clouds. There were no stars anymore. It was very, very dark, and a thin layer of fog lay over the ground, further diminishing their vision. The weather, though, was not all that had changed. It was just harder to put into words. The horses were moving restlessly, some lowly neighed and snorted, as if they smelled some fell stench. Behind Éomer, his men came to their feet, wakened by the feeling of an unseen peril slowly rolling towards them like a huge black wave in the night.

Low whispers of "What is it?" and "Ssshh!", then silence again as everybody strained their ears. The wind had changed, and what had been a shelter from the elements before lay now directly in its path - and brought the foul stench of something different than dead, decaying flesh along.

Firefoot's head shot up sudden enough to free himself of his master's grip and he screamed, a terrified noise Éomer had never before heard from his steed before, but before he could contemplate its meaning, he saw it too: the reflection of two hellishly gleaming eyes and a sparkle of a huge set of jaws jumping towards him! Gúthwine was in his hand before he knew it, scything through the air in front of him in a deadly half-circle while he threw himself to the side. Warm liquid sprayed into his face as an angry bellow threatened to burst his ears, cut short by a dozen spears simultaneously piercing the huge form. The creature fell to the ground. A warg.

A moment of stunned silence, then the anguished screaming of the herd further back and the thunder of their panicked approach as something drove them towards the hidden men. They had but a moment to react and press themselves against the wall of the cornice before the horses were upon them, their charge forcing the éoreds' steeds to run with them or be trampled.

"Firefoot!" The grey passed out of Éomer's vision, just when a row of huge, menacing forms bursting out of the fog, grunting and growling in a way he had never expected to hear again: Uruk-hai. _Uruks!_ A deadly chill wandered down his spine. It could not be true! They were all dead! They had killed them!

Forcing his shock-numbed body into action, Éomer drew his spear from the ground and threw it at the nearest silhouette which was almost upon him.

"Uruk-hai! Fight!"

And the night exploded into violence.

Where for Eorl's sake had they come from? Éomer managed to ask himself as he stormed forth to finish off the speared abomination. A cruel-looking blade swung at him from the other side, and a fast spin and a short move of his sword-arm later he intercepted it, steel crashing against steel, sparks flying. The huge orc grunted and shot out its arm at him, massive jaws gaping, but Éomer ducked and swivelled, and a moment later, the limb fell to the ground. A death-strike into the monster's broad chest, and on to the next. Behind him, men screamed in torment. Horses, they needed their horses!

"Éorlingas! Follow me!"

Something dark jumped at him, and he slashed at it and rolled, came to his feet again and made a break for the middle of the valley, away from the deadly trap they were caught in.

"Firefoot!" The great grey stormed into his direction, an unreal bright shape among the dark, armoured living nightmares blocking Éomer's way. He ducked another swing, before the terrible impact of a Uruk-club on his back made him tumble and fall to his knees. The cuirass splintered, and something in him broke, an explosion of dull pain. With a grunt and a cry of defiance and rage, he swung around nevertheless, thrusting all his weight into a mighty strike that severed the orc's leg, and was rewarded with a pained roar.

No time for the kill, others were blocking his way, ever more surrounding him.

'_Too many!_ _They are too many! This is a full-blown assault! A trap!_

Supporting his weight on his sword to come to his feet, Éomer started in the direction of an approaching orc, drawing back his sword-arm for a deadly thrust as a grey shadow rammed into the creature from behind and threw it to the ground. Rearing, then landing on the Uruk with it's full weight behind it's front legs, the shadow let out a cry of fury and hate. It was Firefoot, and his blood-smeared hide made him a fierce sight to behold as he passed through the battle like a ghost, eyes white with terror, yet unyielding in the face of death. To Éomer, it seemed as if he had never seen a more welcome sight as he called out to him in Rohirric, causing the great stallion run right past him without losing momentum. A critical moment passed when Éomer sheathed his sword to free both hands, while the Uruks bore down upon him.

Praying that the saddle belt was still intact, the king thrust out his arm and got a grip on the pommel, pulled himself up and let out a wild cry of triumph. Riding a huge surge of adrenaline, he threw the stallion around to see for the first time the full extent of the trap. Wherever he looked, he beheld nothing but slashing, roaring, growling shapes of Uruk-hai, more than he could count in the moment that was given to him. From the look of the chaos, his éored was at least ten times outnumbered. No chance to win this battle, they'd have to retreat.

"Éothain! Regroup!"

Pressing his heels into Firefoot's flanks, the king thrust his steed into a menacing black wall of Uruks that blocked him from his likewise mounted marshal, deflecting the first strikes of their axes and clubs with powerful strikes.

"Do not kill the king!"

It was one voice among many, almost drowned out under the noise of the battle, and yet it sent a cold chill down Éomer's back and diverted his attention long enough to miss the cruelly carved, black blade that swung against his horse's shoulder and would have crippled the animal, had its rider not at the last moment shifted his weight to cover the vulnerable spot with his armoured knee. The blow almost shattered bone through the greaves, but they held. Gritting his teeth, the king lashed out a backhanded strike and hit metal, not killing the Uruk but driving it back long enough to spur his steed and direct the stallion at the gap.

"Éothain!"

Only a short distance away, his marshal was in severe distress, bleeding from three deep cuts through his shirt of chain mail, his shield arm broken and useless. He was surrounded by orcs.

"Éomer! Here!"

A spear appeared in his vision, being held up for him as he charged across the meadow to the rescue of his kinsman. The faint impression of a young, bleeding face and wide eyes to his right, cut down by a slashing sound, then he had the spear and once again rammed his heels into Firefoot's flanks, flying towards their enemies with a battle cry.

His onslaught was fast, it was fierce - and it came too late. While Éomer approached, he saw his marshal half-block a mighty thrust and grimace in pain as the black blade cut through his armour into his arm, blood already gushing down the side of his face and his side. For a frozen moment, their eyes met - and then the thick bolt of a Uruk-crossbow smashed into Éothain's unprotected neck and threw him off his horse which went down with him.

"Nooo!" It was too late to turn away, so Éomer accelerated, right arm with the spear drawn back to skewer the Uruk in front of him, which fought frantically to reload its cruel weapon and protect a much smaller figure behind it of which the king could see only part of its dark cloak as he raced towards them, a grey lightning bolt of wrath.

"Don't kill the king!"

The crossbow swung towards his face, and with a cry and his full weight behind it, Éomer thrust the spear - and was catapulted off his horse as something slammed into his right shoulder with the force of a battering ram! The reins were ripped from his left hand, and then the ground raced towards him. He yelled - and suddenly, he was underneath his steed, his right foot caught in the stirrup. The impact of Firefoot's hooves sent explosions through his body as he was dragged face-down over the ground. With a loud clang, his helmet flew from his head, and with a sudden tug, his foot came free - and the weight of the saddle landed on his legs as Éomer came to a stop. Through the loud buzz in his ears, he heard his stallion's scream fading in the distance. Stunned, numbed and unable to catch his breath, it took all of his fierce will to roll onto his back. The thick, feathered shaft of a crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder into his range of vision, the sight of it too bizarre for his mind to grasp yet, all the more disorienting since there was no pain connected to it.

'_Get up, or they will kill you!'_ his inner voice commanded, but his body did not respond. The two were detached from each other, unable to correspond, the reality of battle far away in another dimension.

A dark form started toward him, blade raised over its head to hew him to pieces. It seemed to move irritatingly slowly, leaving him a lot of time to blindly grope with his left hand - the right arm wouldn't move- for anything to defend himself with. His fingers closed around a hilt.

"Don't!"

That voice again, but the king barely heard it through the pounding sound in his ears and the furious roar of the Uruk which filled his blurred vision as the blade descended on him. Knowing he stood no chance of deflecting it, he lashed out with the orc-sword nonetheless, putting the last of his remaining strength into the blow - and felt it cut through tissue and bone with absurd ease. The creature tumbled, its right leg severed, and uttered an enraged cry that was abruptly ended with a sharp slashing sound. Something fell to the ground next to him, a round thing. Staring into the broken eyes of the Uruk-hai's head, Éomer experienced a brief moment of hope - '_Help has come!'_, before the massive body tumbled down on him and drove the bolt further into his flesh. A fiery white explosion in front of his eyes, then - darkness.


	4. Ghosts from the Past

**For Disclaimer, please see Chapter 1**

_Author's Note:_ _Unfortunately, this is a very brief chapter, but I didn't want to let you guys hang from that cliff for too long before unveiling who Éomer's adversary is. So far for the AU-part of this story ;-). I guess some of you lot actually suspected it, right? So, now almost all the cards are dealt, and it is time to play them..._

_Kezya: This is for you! (don't want you to dangle over that abyss for months!)_

**

* * *

****Chapter 4: Ghosts from the Past**

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"Théoden-King?... Uncle?"

The Great Hall of Meduseld was empty. No sounds, no smells, no signs of life could be found within the ancient walls as Éomer pushed open the doors with the last of his strength. Blood - his own and his foes' - stained his cloven cuirass and mail shirt, and as he stumbled into the hall to bring his king the tidings of their great victory on the Pelennor, his sword fell from his trembling hand and fell to the ground with a clear sound that echoed thousand fold from the stone walls. No one came to look for the source of that noise. No one asked. Éomer came to a halt. There was no one here!

And suddenly, he smelled it, so thick and poisonous, it was a mystery to him why he had not detected the smell before: smoke! The Great Hall was burning! As he turned to the side to look into the direction of the king's private chambers, he saw an inferno of flames race towards him.

"Théoden-King?" Another step deeper into the hall. The heat was intense, and there was hardly enough air left to breathe. Then, suddenly, another thought came. An agonising one. "Éowyn? Sister? Where are you?" The fire spread over the walls, upwards to the ceiling, devouring the banner of Eorl. Ancient tapestry burst into flames, then the wooden throne of Rohan caught fire. "Éowyn!"

Ripping himself out of his stupor, he made a dash for his sister's quarters, but just before he reached the door, flames shot up in front of him and blocked his way.

"Éowyn, where are you?"

Parts of the roof came down, and he stumbled backwards, shielding his eyes.

"Éomer! Éomer, help me! Help me, please!"

Her voice! Faint, but she was alive! But the sound did not come from her rooms; it sounded as if- he swivelled around just in time to see the heavy doors swing shut behind something that had just left the hall.

"I am coming, Little Bird! Hold on!"

He forced his battered body into a run and burst outside - to see all of Edoras erupt into flames. Hellfire spread over the thatched roofs and turned the buildings into furnaces, and yet nobody ran out of them. There were no screams, no crying, nothing except for the sound of hooves further down, a single horse in full gallop, trying to flee the inferno.

"Éomer!"

It was a black horse, and there was someone on its back: two figures, one in fitting black, fighting with the other while at the same time riding as if Morgoth himself was after him. Almost beyond the city walls now; the other -

"Éowyn! Éowyn! Nooo-!"

"Help me!"

"She's mine now, Éomer! You are too late! You have always been too late!" The voice burst into triumphing laughter, fading in the distance and the roar of the fire.

"Gríma!-"

Éomer woke with a start and saw a face hovering above him, laid his hand on the hilt of his sword in a heartbeat - but it was not Gríma's. Gríma... was dead. Slain in the Shire, so the people told. He would never again trouble the people of Rohan, or haunt his sister's steps.

There was worry in the pale blue eyes and the weathered, slightly lined features above him. Éomer recognised this face as his friend Éothain's.

"Éomer?" The other man narrowed his eyes. "A bad dream?" He placed a hand on his king's shoulder in reassurance. Only now did Éomer notice the thunder of his heart and his ragged breathing. Embarrassed at being caught in a weak moment, he sat up and shook off Éothain's hand.

"Did I say anything?" '_Or scream?_' If - through a moment of unawareness - he had thwarted their plan - but the marshal shook his head.

"No. I just saw it in your eyes when you woke." Éothain swallowed and turned his head. "Something is going on. The atmosphere has changed."

His words mesmerised Éomer, yet as the young king came to his feet, his limbs stiff from the cold ground, he felt it, too. The light had gone. The moon had wandered far towards the east, but it was now barely visible behind a thick layer of clouds. There were no stars anymore. It was very, very dark, and a thin layer of fog lay over the ground, further diminishing their vision. The weather, though, was not all that had changed. It was just harder to put into words. The horses were moving restlessly, some lowly neighed and snorted, as if they smelled some fell stench. Behind Éomer, his men came to their feet, wakened by the feeling of an unseen peril slowly rolling towards them like a huge black wave in the night.

Low whispers of "What is it?" and "Ssshh!", then silence again as everybody strained their ears. The wind had changed, and what had been a shelter from the elements before lay now directly in its path - and brought the foul stench of something different than dead, decaying flesh along.

Firefoot's head shot up sudden enough to free himself of his master's grip and he screamed, a terrified noise Éomer had never before heard from his steed before, but before he could contemplate its meaning, he saw it too: the reflection of two hellishly gleaming eyes and a sparkle of a huge set of jaws jumping towards him! Gúthwine was in his hand before he knew it, scything through the air in front of him in a deadly half-circle while he threw himself to the side. Warm liquid sprayed into his face as an angry bellow threatened to burst his ears, cut short by a dozen spears simultaneously piercing the huge form. The creature fell to the ground. A warg.

A moment of stunned silence, then the anguished screaming of the herd further back and the thunder of their panicked approach as something drove them towards the hidden men. They had but a moment to react and press themselves against the wall of the cornice before the horses were upon them, their charge forcing the éoreds' steeds to run with them or be trampled.

"Firefoot!" The grey passed out of Éomer's vision, just when a row of huge, menacing forms bursting out of the fog, grunting and growling in a way he had never expected to hear again: Uruk-hai. _Uruks!_ A deadly chill wandered down his spine. It could not be true! They were all dead! They had killed them!

Forcing his shock-numbed body into action, Éomer drew his spear from the ground and threw it at the nearest silhouette which was almost upon him.

"Uruk-hai! Fight!"

And the night exploded into violence.

Where for Eorl's sake had they come from? Éomer managed to ask himself as he stormed forth to finish off the speared abomination. A cruel-looking blade swung at him from the other side, and a fast spin and a short move of his sword-arm later he intercepted it, steel crashing against steel, sparks flying. The huge orc grunted and shot out its arm at him, massive jaws gaping, but Éomer ducked and swivelled, and a moment later, the limb fell to the ground. A death-strike into the monster's broad chest, and on to the next. Behind him, men screamed in torment. Horses, they needed their horses!

"Éorlingas! Follow me!"

Something dark jumped at him, and he slashed at it and rolled, came to his feet again and made a break for the middle of the valley, away from the deadly trap they were caught in.

"Firefoot!" The great grey stormed into his direction, an unreal bright shape among the dark, armoured living nightmares blocking Éomer's way. He ducked another swing, before the terrible impact of a Uruk-club on his back made him tumble and fall to his knees. The cuirass splintered, and something in him broke, an explosion of dull pain. With a grunt and a cry of defiance and rage, he swung around nevertheless, thrusting all his weight into a mighty strike that severed the orc's leg, and was rewarded with a pained roar.

No time for the kill, others were blocking his way, ever more surrounding him.

'_Too many!_ _They are too many! This is a full-blown assault! A trap!_

Supporting his weight on his sword to come to his feet, Éomer started in the direction of an approaching orc, drawing back his sword-arm for a deadly thrust as a grey shadow rammed into the creature from behind and threw it to the ground. Rearing, then landing on the Uruk with it's full weight behind it's front legs, the shadow let out a cry of fury and hate. It was Firefoot, and his blood-smeared hide made him a fierce sight to behold as he passed through the battle like a ghost, eyes white with terror, yet unyielding in the face of death. To Éomer, it seemed as if he had never seen a more welcome sight as he called out to him in Rohirric, causing the great stallion run right past him without losing momentum. A critical moment passed when Éomer sheathed his sword to free both hands, while the Uruks bore down upon him.

Praying that the saddle belt was still intact, the king thrust out his arm and got a grip on the pommel, pulled himself up and let out a wild cry of triumph. Riding a huge surge of adrenaline, he threw the stallion around to see for the first time the full extent of the trap. Wherever he looked, he beheld nothing but slashing, roaring, growling shapes of Uruk-hai, more than he could count in the moment that was given to him. From the look of the chaos, his éored was at least ten times outnumbered. No chance to win this battle, they'd have to retreat.

"Éothain! Regroup!"

Pressing his heels into Firefoot's flanks, the king thrust his steed into a menacing black wall of Uruks that blocked him from his likewise mounted marshal, deflecting the first strikes of their axes and clubs with powerful strikes.

"Do not kill the king!"

It was one voice among many, almost drowned out under the noise of the battle, and yet it sent a cold chill down Éomer's back and diverted his attention long enough to miss the cruelly carved, black blade that swung against his horse's shoulder and would have crippled the animal, had its rider not at the last moment shifted his weight to cover the vulnerable spot with his armoured knee. The blow almost shattered bone through the greaves, but they held. Gritting his teeth, the king lashed out a backhanded strike and hit metal, not killing the Uruk but driving it back long enough to spur his steed and direct the stallion at the gap.

"Éothain!"

Only a short distance away, his marshal was in severe distress, bleeding from three deep cuts through his shirt of chain mail, his shield arm broken and useless. He was surrounded by orcs.

"Éomer! Here!"

A spear appeared in his vision, being held up for him as he charged across the meadow to the rescue of his kinsman. The faint impression of a young, bleeding face and wide eyes to his right, cut down by a slashing sound, then he had the spear and once again rammed his heels into Firefoot's flanks, flying towards their enemies with a battle cry.

His onslaught was fast, it was fierce - and it came too late. While Éomer approached, he saw his marshal half-block a mighty thrust and grimace in pain as the black blade cut through his armour into his arm, blood already gushing down the side of his face and his side. For a frozen moment, their eyes met - and then the thick bolt of a Uruk-crossbow smashed into Éothain's unprotected neck and threw him off his horse which went down with him.

"Nooo!" It was too late to turn away, so Éomer accelerated, right arm with the spear drawn back to skewer the Uruk in front of him, which fought frantically to reload its cruel weapon and protect a much smaller figure behind it of which the king could see only part of its dark cloak as he raced towards them, a grey lightning bolt of wrath.

"Don't kill the king!"

The crossbow swung towards his face, and with a cry and his full weight behind it, Éomer thrust the spear - and was catapulted off his horse as something slammed into his right shoulder with the force of a battering ram! The reins were ripped from his left hand, and then the ground raced towards him. He yelled - and suddenly, he was underneath his steed, his right foot caught in the stirrup. The impact of Firefoot's hooves sent explosions through his body as he was dragged face-down over the ground. With a loud clang, his helmet flew from his head, and with a sudden tug, his foot came free - and the weight of the saddle landed on his legs as Éomer came to a stop. Through the loud buzz in his ears, he heard his stallion's scream fading in the distance. Stunned, numbed and unable to catch his breath, it took all of his fierce will to roll onto his back. The thick, feathered shaft of a crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder into his range of vision, the sight of it too bizarre for his mind to grasp yet, all the more disorienting since there was no pain connected to it.

'_Get up, or they will kill you!'_ his inner voice commanded, but his body did not respond. The two were detached from each other, unable to correspond, the reality of battle far away in another dimension.

A dark form started toward him, blade raised over its head to hew him to pieces. It seemed to move irritatingly slowly, leaving him a lot of time to blindly grope with his left hand - the right arm wouldn't move- for anything to defend himself with. His fingers closed around a hilt.

"Don't!"

That voice again, but the king barely heard it through the pounding sound in his ears and the furious roar of the Uruk which filled his blurred vision as the blade descended on him. Knowing he stood no chance of deflecting it, he lashed out with the orc-sword nonetheless, putting the last of his remaining strength into the blow - and felt it cut through tissue and bone with absurd ease. The creature tumbled, its right leg severed, and uttered an enraged cry that was abruptly ended with a sharp slashing sound. Something fell to the ground next to him, a round thing. Staring into the broken eyes of the Uruk-hai's head, Éomer experienced a brief moment of hope - '_Help has come!'_, before the massive body tumbled down on him and drove the bolt further into his flesh. A fiery white explosion in front of his eyes, then - darkness.

Elana and her clan stood the valley's entrance and listened with terror-filled hearts to the hellish crescendo of screaming horses, the sound of steel crashing against steel and an overall infernal roar that sounded as if Morgoth himself had returned from the First Age with his army of Balrogs. Every now and then, an anguished human cry could be heard through the din, but was quickly drowned out by the other noise. Darkness and a thin layer of fog obscuring the ground prevented them from seeing anything, but then, there was no need for sight. What they heard left no questions: The king's éored was being slaughtered by the same unspeakable horror that had already claimed their horses.

Elana tugged the old fur cloak tighter around her thin frame. The night was chilly, but it was not the temperature that sent shivers down her spine.

'_I asked him to help us,'_ she thought helplessly, staring with widened eyes into the threatening darkness in front of her, all the while seeing Éomer's amused grin over her skill with his horse. '_I am responsible for their death! I did not want for this to happen!'_

A heavy hand landed on her shoulder, and she looked up to her grandfather's sad face.

"It is not your fault, Elana."

Her eyes started to burn, and for the longest moment, her voice was caught in her throat. An isolated human scream pierced her ears, and her finger dug deeper into her coat.

"There must be some way of helping them. Somehow-" They had no weapons of any efficiency, only weak bows and wooden lances to take care of the occasional predator that came to their valley. Nothing to fend off a pack of nightmarish monsters which even a heavily armed and highly-trained éored was unable to handle.

"There is." Fárlorn, a grim, middle-aged man with a weathered face and their official leader, turned his head. "You must ride to Edoras again, and this time, tell them to send all of what is left of the Rohirrim! You are the only one whose horse is still alive."

Elana stared at him, frightened by the prospect. Yes, thanks to her foresight of leaving Áriel in a sheltered little cave above the gorge they lived in, her steed was well, but after six days on horseback, Elana could no longer deny that she was exhausted, as was Áriel. They would need more time to reach Edoras again, at least a day more, she figured. Yet, in her heart she understood that it was the only thing she could do. It would not help the king and his men anymore, but it might save her family, because sooner or later, whatever evil it was that haunted the valley would come for them. Dreading the prospects of the task that lay before her, but knowing there was no way around it, she nodded, her eyes seeking the dark shadow of the cave.

"I will go at once. And I shall make haste, but I fear that we will not be as fast as the first time."

Fárlorn gently ruffled her hair, as another blood-curdling cry rang out from the dark. She prayed it wasn't the king. Hopefully, death would come to most of his men quickly.

"Nobody expects it from you. Just be careful. We do not want to lose you, too, Elana."

Elana swallowed.

"And you... you be careful, too. I want to see you again when I return."

"Do not worry. Come dawn, we will leave for the upper feeding grounds. Maybe they will not follow us there. I doubt there will be anything left of our herd to take care of by then."

"Grandfather?" Elana embraced the old man who had raised her like his own daughter after her parents had perished, and exchanged a nod with the others, before she finally turned to fetch a few supplies and climbed up to where Áriel was waiting for her.

Éomer's dream had returned. If anything, it was even more detailed now, the crackling of fire more prominent, the smell of smoke more pungent. And something else had changed, too: there were people around. Their murmured, incoherent whispers clearly indicated their presence. Éomer tried to clear his throat and call out to them, but failed miserably. A moment later, he was glad he had, for the tone of the surrounding noise had changed from a blurred tapestry of sound to a deep, menacing growl. Yet it was not the growl of an animal: there was definitely something to it that gave him the impression of speech, of an actual language. Maybe, if he just paid enough attention, he would be able to understand. Yet before he was even able to summon his will to focus, the noise subsided to a distant hum, and blackness pulled him under again.

"-their tents. It's too -"

A deep, distorted reply.

"-must not kill them. Just gather them up and-"

The two voices were close, very close, and loud enough to cut through the state of dreamy weightlessness he was floating through. Still a dream? He thought that this time, he had woken enough for this to be real.

The deep voice asked a question, something brief. Éomer only understood the word "him" and instinctively knew that he was the subject. He tensed, not knowing what to expect. Was this friend or foe? Would they finish him off or tend to his wounds? Because wounded he was, Éomer dimly remembered, even if he could not feel more than a distant throbbing reverberating through his otherwise numb body. He remembered the sudden, hard impact on his shoulder, then the fall and staring into the eyes of the Uruk's severed head. The rest was blurred. Who had come to his aid? As much as he struggled, it proved impossible to open his eyes.

"Get the cuirass and the mail off him and carry him over. Carefully. I do not want him harmed any further."

The concussion of two heavy steps next to his head, then the creaking of leather as someone knelt down. Two hands seized him less than gently. Inwardly, Éomer braced for the pain which - beyond doubt - would result from any kind of movement and certainly from the removal of the pierced mail shirt, and would probably knock him out again. In this, he was quite correct.

Despite knowing how long the way back would be, Elana rode hard for the first part of the journey. The evil that had claimed the place drove her away from the screams of the dying and the overwhelming sense of doom hovering above the valley she had so far only held joyful memories of. And she wanted to protect her clan. The first trip had been about their horses. It had not for once entered her head that what took them, might just as well come for her people, next. Now, the thought could no longer be left disregarded: they all were in danger.

Knowing how exhausted her mare was after the long way she had run over the last days, the young woman nevertheless pressed her heels into the animal's flanks, urging her - pleading with her, in fact - to speed up. Thus she saw what was lying in her way almost to late when they rounded another curve of the winding gorge. A huge dark shadow blocked their path, Áriel rammed her limbs into the ground, and Elana went flying over her head. Instinctively, she took position to land on her feet and roll, but the velocity of her fall sent her into a solid wall of rock, knocking the air out of her lungs. She fell on her back, stunned. And stared at the huge pile of rocks which blocked the way.

"He slept long enough. Get it into him."

The voice made Éomer's skin crawl. His seriously handicapped mind worked hard at placing it, yet for all the familiarity in it he was unable to put a name on it. His intense pondering was interrupted by the sudden feeling of his chin being seized and huge fingers digging into the side of his jaw, forcing it open. His nose barely had the opportunity to register a vile stench right in front of his face, when a hot, bitter liquid was poured into his mouth.

"Drink!"

The huge hand pressed against his chin with a force that almost broke his neck, and the stuff ran down his throat, causing his stomach to heave. A violent retching fit followed with the distinct notion of panic, since his mouth was still held forcefully shut even as the liquid began to rise in his throat.

"Leave him!"

Virtually at the last moment, the hand disappeared, and a few painful contractions sent the contents of his stomachs out - and the entire rest of his body into the most serious physical pain he had ever encountered. All parts of him seemed to wake simultaneously, and before Éomer was even able to yell, the combined thunder in his head, torso and leg flattened him to a point where the merest thought of catching his breath felt preposterous. His eyes snapped open.

The first thing he saw was the huge, deformed head of a Uruk-Hai captain in front of his face, close enough to bite off his head with the huge gaping jaws these creatures possessed. Its glowing amber eyes seemed to burn right through him as the Half-Orc let out a guttural, menacing chuckle at the sight of its captive's obvious pain. A wave of sickening stench assaulted the king's senses and sent his stomach into new contractions.

"Hail Éomer, King of the Mark," a smooth, carrying voice belonging to someone he could not make out behind the huge form squatting in front of him said mockingly. "The _last_ king of the Mark." A short pause. Recovering from the retching fit, Éomer raised his head and his innards turned into a block of ice. Finally, he had identified the voice. Yet it could not be! "Leave us alone."

The Uruk growled his affirmation and came to his feet, and as he stepped to the side and made for the others further back, the young King of Riddermark stared with widening eyes at the pale face of a ghost. A breathless moment where all evil this man had brought upon Rohan flashed in front of Éomer's eyes, then his face contorted into a grimace of hate and rage, and his breath returned long enough for him to spit out one word:

"Gríma!"


	5. Plans Unveiled

**For Disclaimer, please see Chapter 1**

_Author's Note:_ _Yeah, another "shorty". I just felt it was important to get this out, seeing how most of you are probably a bit confused over Gríma's appearance. Hey, I told you, it's an AU! But it's probably the only AU-part in the story, so I hope you'll stay with me (there is actually a – hopefully – very good explanation for the existence of the Uruk-hai coming up in the next chapter). As my vacation is over now, I'm afraid I won't be able to post as frantically as I have over the last few days, but I'm driven enough to make as much haste as possible (I'm a 'hasty' person)._

_Kezya: Once again thanks for your fast reviews. Geez, you're almost reading those Chapters faster than I can post them! ;-)_

_Trickster: By now you've probably discovered by yourself that, yes, Elana is going to be_

_Important._ _And yes, you will get to know her better, to. As for Gríma – I just_

_Thought he'd have such a wonderful motive to come back and haunt Rohan,_

_I couldn't resist reviving him. ;-)_

**

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Chapter 5: Plans unveiled

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**

The dark counsellor of the late King Théoden took the last step that separated him from his prisoner and looked at the puddle next to Éomer.

"What a shame. You should not have disposed of the potion I made quite so quickly. After all, it is the only thing that will keep you alive while you are my... guest." Éomer's eyes became narrow slits, sparkling with heartfelt contempt. Wormtongue's gaze crept back to him. "You know Uruks: they do not keep their weapons clean. Sometimes, so I have been told, they even like to smear their arrows and crossbow bolts with dirt or dung, so that even if the wounds they inflict on their enemies are not fatal in the first place, they will begin to fester almost instantly." With his chin, he pointed at the black shaft protruding from the king's shoulder and grimaced. "It is an ugly death. Messy."

"_You_ are supposed to be dead! Word was that you were slain by Halflings." Even though Éomer was furious over the appearance of his nemesis of old, confusion still ruled him. How could it be? Had he himself somehow brought the slithering servant of Saruman back from his dreams? Was he looking at a ghost? It was something that his practical mind refused to believe, but then again, an army of ghosts had saved them on the Pelennor. Who was he to question the possibility?

His profound consternation brought a thin-lipped smile to Gríma's face.

"Ah, I'm afraid those were but a few well-placed rumours. You find someone with a certain resemblance to yourself, you convince him to follow you... you kill him, put your old clothes and a few tokens people will recognise on him, and make sure he is found. All it takes then to make your own death a certainty to others are a few whispers into the right ears. Men are so easily brought to believe what they want to be true. And of course, the people of Rohan _wanted _to believe I was dead."

"And dead you will be, once and for all, once the people of Rohan are through with you," Éomer fumed and struggled to sit up. Why couldn't he feel his arms? "Only your death will be much harder now than if you had received it from the Halflings." As he struggled, Éomer realised that his arms were above him, chained to an iron ring driven into the rock. Numb. Useless. Gríma sighed.

"I do not believe, my lord, that you are in a position to promise me any such thing." Turning his back on his captive, Gríma motioned for one of the figures further back to bring him a chair from one of the tents. With a start, Éomer realised where he was, and his eyes widened. Had Wormtongue's army of monsters killed the unarmed herdsmen? Hissing, he forced himself into a sitting position, even if the hammering pain in his head and torso worsened as a result of the movement. He had hardly settled back into a resting position when his foes' attention was directed back at him.

"Quite the contrary: for the time being, my king, I fear that you are indeed at my mercy. I could have let my army kill you on the battlefield, but I have some further use for you yet. I would not want to deprive you of the privilege of experiencing a lesson the people of Rohan have had coming for a long time." Gríma paused, an amused, yet distant smile on his face as he lost himself in his vision for a moment. Éomer narrowed his eyes.

"It was so easy to catch you." The pale blue eyes with their differently formed pupils returned to him. "Far too easy. A shame in fact, considering how much your kind prides yourself of your strength and wits. I knew exactly what it took to draw you out of Meduseld." Another meaningful break. Gríma leaned forward, taking on the challenge of his captive's hateful stare. "You think that by keeping the kingdom shut to strangers, to anyone different than you, you will remain a mystery to them. You think no one who is not of Rohirric heritage can figure out the ways your arrogant, racist, self-loving minds work, but you are wrong. It is painfully obvious to any creature with a brain that there is nothing better than attacking your beloved animal friends, your horses, which you deem of higher worth than actual Rohan-born folk who do not match the conception of what a decent man of the Mark should look like, to have you come looking for them, fuming for revenge."

"Your words are poisonous as ever, snake, and they are false! The people of the Mark know evil when they see it, and our contempt for you was well-earned from the start! Out of self-pity over being unable to acquire what you craved, you joined forces with the White Wizard to avenge yourself. Éowyn would not look at you because she could see the evil in your heart, not because of your dark hair! Because she rejected you, you decided to betray your own people to the death. I truly cannot think of a better definition of evil!"

Unfazed by the king's outburst, Wormtongue continued, his eyes trailing off to the other side now with a malicious expression. When Éomer followed his gaze, he saw a large group of Uruk-hai, back-lit by the crackling fire and burying their faces in large pieces of meat one of the captains in their midst handed out. It was too dark to see their blood-dripping features in more detail, but the mere thought of what they were feasting on sent an icy shudder through the Rohir's spine. As if it had felt his glance, one of the creatures started towards them with a big, steaming spit in its hand. Gríma watched its approach and then directed his attention back at his prisoner.

"Is that so? Are evil deeds not evil deeds if the noble Rohirrim commit them? We should ask the people of Dunland what they think of this question. What had they done to you to be driven from their lands into the hills where life is almost too harsh to be sustained? Where innocent women and children die of hunger? You drove them away, and those who refused to go willingly were killed. Does this injustice not give them the moral right to hate and pursue you where they find you? How about that as a true definition of evil?"

"I will not discuss the Dunlendings with you, snake," Éomer sneered. "We both know what they did to make us turn on them in the first place."

Gríma shrugged.

"I assume it all lies in the eyes of the beholder. Anyway, I was talking about the predictability of the smart, cunning Rohirrim: All I had to do in order to draw you out was attack your precious mearas-herd and make it look as if predators did it. Even though we slew so many of them in just one night that your conclusion should have been this was more than an ordinary wolf pack's work, you were still arrogant enough to come here with only twenty men. I must say I am disappointed. I counted on you to bring at least fifty." He exhaled. "You would still have lost, but... as I was saying, it underlines the point I was making about your supposedly sharp-witted people: You greatly over-estimate your abilities. Your arrogance has no match in Middle Earth, except maybe for the Elves. To your foes, it is a very valuable character-trait."

"You shall find that we 'supposedly sharp-witted people' will not tolerate the likes of you and your foul company in our land, snake! And if you underestimate our abilities, then all the better for us!" The Uruk had reached them, and Éomer watched in disgust as the Half-Orc passed the spit to its master. The pleasant smell of roasted meat was carried to him by the light breeze, but all it did to him was turn his stomach, as it was an easy guess where the meat had most likely come from.

Gríma had already taken the first bite and was obviously delighted by his captive's disdain. Leaning forward on his elbows, he held out the spit within Éomer's reach.

"You must be hungry. Would you like some?"

The answer was an amazing stream of ancient Rohirric curses not even Gríma had been familiar with so far. To drive his point home, Éomer then spat on the meat he was offered.

"I suppose this means 'no', then." Wormtongue would have raised his eyebrows if he had any. Calmly, he peeled the spat-on chunk off and dropped it, then continued eating. "Another point to my theory. Supplies are scarce in your land, people are dying from hunger, yet you refuse to reap the wealth of food in front of your eyes. Pity. It tastes delicious, and you will need to eat in order to get through the next days. You will need your strength... what is left of it." Then his face lit as if a great idea had suddenly entered his mind. "Gods, what am I saying, of course we have not only horse-meat!" He furrowed his brow and held Éomer's gaze. "Although I suppose you would like the other one even less... and the Uruk-hai would be very upset if I took it from their part of the prey. Uruks are not very fond of horse-meat, you know? They prefer a different taste."

It took a moment for the terrible meaning of Gríma's words to sink in. A moment when it became terribly clear to Éomer that he was the only one of his éored left alive. And a moment to envision what his foe's grim company was doing to his fallen men as they spoke. There were no words for the horror and rage he felt. Enough rage to scream into the pale face in front of him and kick out with his chained feet, knocking the very alive ghost from the chair; enough even to force Éomer to his feet and shove the agony his body erupted with into the background of his mind while he struggled with the chains, fighting to reach his tormentor who crept backwards on hands and knees out of his reach, then got up.

"I'll kill you, orc-scum! I'll lay you open and feed your intestines to the pigs, I swear it!" Another mighty tug, but the chains held, and not even rage was able to hold him on his feet any longer. His weak right knee giving way, Éomer tumbled to the ground.

Gríma was well aware of the fact that a few of his Uruk-hai had followed the quarrel from close-by, and now he motioned two of them to step up to him.

"Get him up!" Hissing another curse in the direction of his foe, the king was pulled to his feet and smacked against the rock with brutal force. "Hold his arms!" Wormtongue stepped closer, his expression turned from mocked amusement to deadly coldness as he brought his face close to Éomer's, his voice toned down to a deadly whisper which was hard to hear over the loud breathing of his two guards. "You are a wonderful example of the arrogant, proud and stubborn people of this land. You embody all virtues the Rohirrim look up to, and despise others for not having. You shall be an excellent object to teach them a valuable lesson before they'll expire."

"They won't listen to a filthy worm!"

" Oh, but they won't have to listen. They will only have to look at you, and then they will see that - once denied your privileges and stripped of your shiny armour and the pomp of the Royal Court - you are no different from them: a simple, weak, over-estimated, under-smart... peasant! The free people will thank us for removing the population of Rohan from the face of Middle Earth!"

With a sudden vicious thrust, Éomer's brow connected with Gríma's lower jaw, splitting the counsellor's lip and breaking off the two lower front teeth. For a moment, the pain brought tears to Gríma's eyes as he stumbled backwards. The fingers he carefully touched his mouth with came away bloodied, and looking up, he glimpsed a triumphant sparkle in the king's eyes, even though his own head-wound bled anew and the Uruk-hai were almost breaking his arms as they pulled him back against the rock.

"You are bleeding, snake!"

It was but a step that separated them, and Éomer's mocking remark was enough for Gríma to forget his own order as he seized the black shaft of the crossbow and forced it further in with the full weight of his body, finally succeeding in drawing the first satisfying scream from his opponent. With a violent jerk to the side, he slowly turned the bolt and saw all signs of mockery or triumph gone and replaced by a familiar and welcome glaze in the dark eyes in front of him. Despite the experience he had just had, Wormtongue brought his face close again to whisper into his half-conscious prisoner's ear.

"Your people shall pay dearly for your stubbornness, Éomer-king. The lesson I will teach them will be one they shall never forget for as long as they live... even if I do not expect them to last the winter." He retreated. "Release him!"

Darkness claimed Éomer before he hit the ground.


	6. Preparations

**Chapter 6: Preparations**

* * *

Elana was on her way back to the valley, yet she made only slow progress. The way to Edoras had been blocked so thoroughly that passing the fallen rocks with a horse had seemed utterly impossible to her. She needed to think. There was more at play here than first met the eye. Sure, rocks tumbled down from the mountains occasionally, but exactly at the narrowest point of the canyon with a precision that left no gap open to use, and only after the king and his éored had passed it in the afternoon to be now trapped along with everybody else? In her heart the young woman felt a deep-seated fear that there was more to the happenings of the last days than the eye could see, a dread that her clan had been used in an elaborate scheme to - kill Éomer?

Shocked by the thought, a little gasp escaped her mouth, and involuntarily her hands pulled on the reins and forced Áriel to stop. Her widening eyes directed at the dark path before her, it finally all came together in her mind. They were not dealing with animals at all! There had to be humans involved in this - after all, they had heard the sound of sword-fighting! Swords on armour, that was what the noise had been! Their precious mearas-herd had been used as bait to lure their king into a trap - and her task had been to place his head in the sling! '_Béma, no!'_ It was an awful thought.

Elana had been fond of King Théoden's nephew ever since the ceremony four years back. Éomer's first war-horse had been injured in a battle and was returned to their herd after having been healed to enjoy his last years. Thus, the young warrior had been in need of a new steed, and while Elana had been too intimidated by his stern and distant stance to approach him- all the more since he was standing amidst an entire group of new recruits and seasoned warriors, captains and marshals who all needed new horses - he had somehow spotted her in the middle of her kin, maybe because she had been the youngest one accompanying them on that day, or maybe he had felt her stare. Either way, they had made eye contact, and even though she had instantly lowered her head, there had been an intense heat flushing her face as if he had caught her doing something she wasn't supposed to do.

When she had finally dared to lift her eyes again and look out from under her eyebrows apprehensively, she had found to her surprise that his gaze was still on her, but some of the rigidity and harshness in his bearing seemed to have melted away, and he had smiled. Only the hint of a smile, in fact, so distant and with a faraway quality to it that it led her to believe it had not been her he had seen in the first place.

The Gods knew what he had seen in her ragged, thin appearance. Sure, they had all dressed up for the event according to their tradition, but then again, her people were not known for their fancy dresses. All she had done was wash her hair and slip into her likewise freshly washed wool tunic, the white one with the embroidered horse silhouettes on it, nothing special. It had been windy that day, because her long golden hair had pestered her, blowing into her face and her eyes and her mouth no matter how often she attempted to smooth it back behind her ears. Éomer, obviously, had been amused by it, for he had given her another funny look before he had followed the others into the valley to where the horses where.

Their eyes had met again after Firefoot had chosen him as his future rider, and this time, she had not averted her eyes. On contrary, they had sparkled with pride as Éomer approached with the grey stallion, accompanied by her grandfather. The two men had exchanged a few words before Fréod finally nodded her way. The little foal, her beloved, motherless little Firefoot, would be the king's nephew's new steed!

"Lady Elana?" He had called her a 'lady'! She almost fainted. "Your grandfather here has just told me that you were the one who hand-raised this wonderful example of a meara-stallion. 'tis true?"

For a moment, she had thought she would not be able to draw enough air into her lungs for a reply, and when the gift of speech finally returned to her, her voice sounded hushed and shy.

"Yes, my lord. He was always very special to me, and I hope, he will be special to you, too." She looked up, and her voice grew stronger with pride. "His name is Firefoot." She made an awkward attempt at curtseying and felt her face flush to a deep, telling red. How embarrassing! Especially when she heard her hero's laughter! Sullenly, she raised her head, inwardly wishing herself far away, but then Éomer had reached out to gently smooth another nasty strand of hair out of her eyes, and when she looked into his face she saw that his laughter was not meant in mockery of her.

"Do not look at me like this, Elana, daughter of the Mearas! I apologise if I led you to believe even for a moment that I might have laughed at you. I most certainly did not. It is only that you remind me so much of my younger sister. She was just like you at this age - shy at first, but at the same time proud and wild... more interested in horses and fighting and adventures than giving a care for the manners of the court her royal tutors desperately tried to teach her."

"Oh..." she had managed to utter, bereft of words, and feeling no less awkward in his presence. Sensing her discomfort with the situation, Éomer had then pulled his hand back and placed it on the neck of the dark grey stallion.

"You said 'Firefoot' is his name."

"Aye, my lord."

"It is a good name; a strong name. He shall be as swift as fire and as terrible to our enemies. I thank you for raising him for me."

It was a good memory, one Elana held dear to her heart. Which was why she had to find a way to help, even if the path to Edoras was no longer open. Her spirits sank with each of Áriel's steps that took her closer toward the valley and the unspeakable horror it accommodated.

Standing at the place where the path forked - the left way leading south-west and deeper into the White Mountains, the right way leading back to their small settlement and the Meara-valley - she urged her mare to stop and strained her ears. Nothing. No birds, no insects, no voices. Everything lay under a silence as deep as a death blanket. The thought made her shiver. What if all of them were already dead? The king... his men... and her clan? She had to find out, first!

Reluctant to leave Áriel back, Elana pondered for a moment whether she should tie her to a branch, or whether she could risk letting her wait right here, where rock would shield her from unfriendly eyes. The mare would be robbed of her only chance of survival if she were tied up only to be detected by some fell creature accidentally. Yet, Elana could not risk the mare making her way back to the uncertain territory of her family. Áriel was the last horse they possessed, their only means of calling for aid. She could not risk her life. So it was with a heavy heart that she decided to tie the young grey to a root still behind the canyon wall, out of sight - as she hoped - of the evil that roamed their lands.

Quick-footed, silent and careful, the young woman then climbed up to the little path under an enormous outcrop which overlooked her family's settlement. The sight of a raging fire ahead stopped her heart even though she was still a good distance away, and it took all of her will to stifle the cry that wanted to burst from her lungs. Their barn! Their winter supplies were burning! The enemy had moved on, indeed, and now her people were the next victims. Was her family still alive, or was she looking at another massacre?

Hunching closer into the shadow provided by the rock over her head, she slowly advanced and noticed a great number of people moving between their tents and the fires. People? Elana narrowed her eyes in an attempt to see better, and the vague feeling that something was out of place with the way these shadows moved made her skin crawl. They walked on two legs, yes, but – 'people'? They seemed awfully tall... and broad!

Then one of the mysterious things below her bellowed and turned its head, and she fell flat on her stomach and hugged the ground, a violent trembling shaking her. She had seen the thing! It was not human! And it was no orc either - she had seen orcs once: they were much smaller and no comparison to this hulking, sinister creature!

'_Gods, what are these monsters?'_

Had it seen her, too? Would it come up here to bite her head off? And what had they done to her family? A guttural roar went up to her as she pressed her face into the sparse vegetation on the ground and her hands to her ears in the desire to disappear completely. Others answered the call, and soon the entire gorge vibrated with the creatures' wild cries to the point where even small rocks were starting to slide from the slopes.

'_They've seen me! They must have!'_

Elana's heart pounded in a frenzied beat, almost bursting her rip cage, as she carefully raised her head and - despite better knowledge -frantically searched for an escape route, but the path's end was clearly visible in front of her, and there was just no way to make it over the rock blocking it without being seen from below.

'_Are they coming right now to get me?'_

Anxiously she waited for some more long breaths, before the urge to look became unbearable. With incredible caution, she raised her head behind the cover of a dry bush and peeked down. There was no frenzy among the monsters to climb up and catch her. Rather, they had turned their collective backs on her and went about their own business… whatever that business was. Elana did not particularly care to know, as long as it did not involve her family. Her family…

Narrowing her eyes, she spotted a group of people sitting and standing in the - indeed, in the pig pen. In the pig pen? Where were the pigs then? Trying even harder to see more, Elana could finally make out her grandfather's face in the glow of the burning barn. He seemed to be uninjured, likewise the others. Nobody was bleeding or limping, as far as she was able to see. All were tugging their shabby old furs around their bodies to protect themselves from the chilly night, and their expressions were frightened and worried, but it was a great relief to see them all unharmed nonetheless. A huge load fell off her back, but not for long. What was the intent of those things? Why had they rounded her family up like that? Just to burn their barn and kill their pigs? Surely, this alone was bad enough, but nothing against the fears in her mind as she had climbed to her perch.

A smaller figure clad entirely in black, walked into her view from the right side, talking to those things, and Elana froze. Now, that was definitely a man, and judging by the way the monsters behaved around him, he even seemed to be in command. Who was he? Why was he here? Letting her eyes stray a bit further in the direction he had come from, she detected a motionless figure sitting in a slumped position at the rock-wall, arms chained to the ring they used to tie their horses to, head hanging down in a way which suggested that the man - his broad, tall build betrayed his gender - was unconscious, if not worse. There was an awfully thick, black shaft protruding from his upper body, and even if the person wasn't dead yet, the sight of it was indication enough that he would be very soon if nobody helped him. Straining her eyes to find out who the man was, the girl suddenly felt an cold chill wander down her spine. She knew that tunic. None of her clan wore leather tunics, so it had to be one of the king's men. The long hair hung into the man's face and was partially plastered to it with blood, so she could not be entirely sure, but - she gasped. It had to be Éomer! Had to be!

Stifling a cry, she focussed harder on him, pleading for a movement. There was none to detect, but he had to be alive, or why else would they have chained him to the wall? Resting her eyes again on the arrow in his shoulder, Elana thought hard. It was hard to concentrate with the turmoil of clashing feelings she was caught up in - relief, shock, hope, pity… and at last, rage.

So it was indeed true: the whole time they had unwittingly been used in an elaborate sham to set the king captive. The thought of it made her feel bad and somehow… stained. Was there the mark of evil now on her, or would she have a chance to redeem herself? Everything that had happened to the king and his men was her fault! How could she ever undo this? What to do? The way to Edoras was blocked. There was only just one way still open to her and Áriel - further into the mountains, across the higher feeding grounds, directly the opposite direction. There were a few settlements on that way, too, but Elana was not sure how big their éoreds where, and whether they would be of any help against these awful creatures. It was impossible to count them, the way they constantly moved around, but Fréod had taught her very early how to estimate the number of horses in their herd, and they were not partial to standing still, either. All in all, she figured there were around two hundred of these ghoulish things down there. Too many. How was she supposed to get Éomer out of their grasp?

Below, two of the horrible black things roared at each other and started to fight over something Elana could not make out in the twilight. It was then when she realised that dusk lay not so far away anymore. Soon, it would be morning. : she would have to come to a decision, and soon.

"What have I told you, brother?"

"To never challenge Wormtongue openly. I am sorry, Éowyn." Éomer held her pale face in his hands, stroking her cheeks with his thumbs and seeing the tears in his sister's dark eyes. She was a strong woman, but she knew she would be truly alone from now on. Behind them, Éomer felt the threatening presence of the dark counsellor's personal guards. They had granted him a very short moment to say farewell to Éowyn when she had intercepted them in his private quarters where he was packing a few of his belongings, but that moment would soon be over. He had been banished from the hall of his fathers and forefathers, from the land he was born in. How had it come to that? "I had to try to wake the king with the proof I had gathered at the fords. I was hoping to get through to him. I failed."

"Let me come with you then! Do not leave me here!"

It pained Éomer to see his younger sister so upset. He took her cold, delicate hands into his and hoped the urgency he felt was visible on his face.

"Someone has to look after our uncle, Éowyn. We cannot leave him alone - all by himself - at that snake's mercy. He is still our king! We must attempt to break this evil spell. And Théodred... someone needs to tend to Théodred. I know his wounds are grave and there is almost no hope for him, but I do not want to grant Wormtongue the opportunity to sneak up and kill him, or to poison or stab him, just to be rid of Théoden's heir once and for all. It would not be below him to do so, you know that, and you don't want for this to happen either, do you, sister? He is family. We have to protect him." Éomer squeezed her hands and bent forward under the pretext of giving his sister a kiss on the brow, but just before his lips touched her skin, he tilted his head ever so slightly and muttered in a low voice: "I will be back soon. I will gather all that are still loyal to the king, and when I return, we shall dispose of Gríma the usurper. Fear not, Little Bird, and be strong!" He kissed her and felt her hands squeeze his, then freeing themselves of his grip and pulling him close, not wanting to let go.

"Marshal? It is time."

He ignored the stern voice from behind and looked down to lift Éowyn's chin with a finger until she met his eyes. So much sorrow…

"I know you are strong, Éowyn. We must not let him win."

"He won't." No more tears, but a desperate, haunted look that made Éomund's son feel like a traitor to desert her. '_But I am not the traitor, it is Gríma! And he shall pay for it! For as long as there is a single breath left in me, I shall pursue his death!'_

His sister's short reply brought a ghost of a smile to his lips as he took a step back and let go of her, ready to follow the impatiently waiting guards. '_Be strong, little one,'_ his gaze told her wordlessly before he turned on his heels to leave. '_I will be back!'_

"_Don't challenge Gríma! Don't challenge Gríma!..."_

His sister's voice reverberated through the pounding of his head as the King of the Mark finally came to, spit out into an early twilight by the same black flood which had pulled him under during the night.

"Éowyn..."

The name tasted bittersweet on his lips: she had always been smarter at this game than he. While both of them were equally passionate in their loyalty and protectiveness of their kin, Éowyn had somehow emerged as the shrewder strategist, not to mention the better diplomat. Better at keeping her thoughts to herself and her face unreadable, whereas Éomer had a reputation for his bluntness and hot temper. Unlike his sister, he was not adept at hiding his emotions well when he was angered. A deficiency, he had to admit, but something he had so far refused to learn. After all, his reputation as a hothead had served him well in his soldier's life so far. Usually, people thought at least twice before they decided whether having the marshal's wrath upon them was really worth the ill deed they were thinking of committing.

"_Gríma is too cunning, too powerful. We cannot touch him yet. Do not challenge him openly, Éomer!"_

The stench of cold smoke reached his nostrils, and together with the images of a burnt-down Edoras from his dreams, it was enough to wake the king with a jolt. The voice from his dream faded to the memory of a whisper in the first cold breaths of morning, too frail to resist grim reality. Two muscular, dark-skinned legs obstructed Éomer's view of the proceedings around him, and he raised his head against the hammering pain behind his forehead with a sense of foreboding.

"Drink!"

A wooden cup was offered to him, and the stench rising from it told him it was the same potion he had been forced to swallow during the night. Already, his stomach heaved in anticipation of a repeat.

"There are two ways we can do this, my lord," Wormtongues oily voice emerged from behind the Uruk-hai's broad back. As he stepped out of its shadow, Éomer saw the damage he had done clearly on his adversary's face - a blood-crusted, swollen lip and a dark bruise that covered his entire chin. He felt satisfied. Very well. At least he had some result to show for his own blinding headache. "One: You give up your resistance and drink this - and keep it inside - without trying to cause further problems to us, or two: You spill it like last night, you continue to be a nuisance, and we might have to kill one of your innocent kinsmen to teach you some respect for all the work that went into the potion that will ultimately safe your life - at least for some time. Choose wisely, Éomer-king!"

Éomer cast a quick glance past the orc's right side, from where he had picked up the notion of being watched. It was the girl's grandfather who was looking at him from behind the Uruk in deep concern, and behind him, he could see the others. So they had left the clan alive so far. It was a relief, but not a great one. Wormtongue was not to be trusted. Surely he had only spared them for now to use them as a means to subdue their king. Éomer hated to admit that it was a smart approach. So it was with reluctance that he finally nodded.

"I cannot promise you that I can keep it inside… but I will try."

The pale blue eyes in Gríma's white face became narrow slits as the dark counsellor taxed his opposite's expression.

"You better try hard, last king of Rohan. You know I _will_ do it."

"Aye, I know…" '…_you are vile enough to kill unarmed, innocent people, even_ _children!'_ Éomer wanted to add, but bit back at the last moment. Insulting Gálmód's son further would not gain him any advantage in his current situation. For now, he would have to try to keep up his strength and be patient; something the young King of Riddermark had always found exceedingly hard to do.

With a guttural grunt, the Uruk squatted down in front of him and pressed the cup against Éomer's lips. Breathing shallowly through the mouth to escape the putrid smell, he emptied it with four deep swigs - and shut his eyes as a wave of nausea originating from his rebelling stomach threatened to overwhelm him.

"Fight it," Gríma said coldly. "You spit it out, it will cost you a man's life… or a woman's!"

The bile had already risen half the way up his throat, burning like fire. He swallowed air to force it down, concentrated, and slowly but surely, the feeling began to subside until all that remained was a hot throbbing in his middle. Exhausted from the effort, Éomer finally looked up to his tormentor and saw the derogatory twitch in the corner of his mouth.

"Very well. After all these years in your and your uncle's service, this is the first true indication that the stubborn descendants of the house of Eorl _can_ indeed be taught! I am very pleased with you." Gríma rubbed his hands together against the cold morning air and turned to go. "The potion will give you strength for the day. We will leave in one hour. Use it to rest."


	7. Departure

**Chapter 7: Departure**

* * *

It was as Wormtongue had said. A ghostly pale sun had barely begun its ascent in the sky and started to melt away the thick blankets of fog that still lay over the narrow valley, when they finally came for him.

Cautiously leaned back with his good shoulder against the rock wall, Éomer had been watching the Uruks' preparations for the breaking of their camp for a while, his thoughts circling around the fate of the good people which had been rounded up in the pig pen like animals. There were many children among them. As much as he hated Gríma, the king refused to believe that his adversary would send his ghoulish army against them. Or would he? After all, no scruples whatsoever had stopped Gálmód's son from planning genocide at Helm's Deep!

'_Aye, but only because he would not have to watch them die there,'_ he concluded, taking Wormtongue for a man who would rather try to avoid witnessing the carnage his actions implied. But what kind of 'lesson' was he speaking of? One could not teach lessons to dead people. An indication that the herdsmen would be allowed to live? If only he could believe it. Musing over Gríma's motive in his mind, Éomer watched his enemy's army getting ready to move. Against his own will, he was impressed by the straight-forwardness of the Uruk-hai. Once told their tasks, they appeared to get to them single-mindedly and did not stray from them until they were done, very efficient, and highly convenient for whoever would be leading them.

Still, one question remained unanswered: What was Gríma's hold over them? Why did they obey a scrawny, not at all intimidating weakling of a man? Granted, Wormtongue was - in his own, twisted ways - fearsomely cunning and intelligent, but as far as Éomer knew the different orc-species, they did not care much for intelligence. To impose one's self upon them as their leader, one would have to inspire their fear. It was hard to see how Gríma had accomplished that, and how he had managed to get a hold of them first. To Éomer's knowledge, all of Saruman's Uruk-hai had vanished in the sudden rout after their defeat at Helm's Deep. The Huorns of Fangorn had taken their revenge on them, a sight he had found hard to believe even though it had happened right in front of his eyes. Nowhere in the Riddermark had a single Uruk been seen after that incident, so it had been taken for a fact that they had all found death. Obviously, like Gríma's assumed death, this also had been but a rumour, born out of hope. Out of hope, his ever- vigilant kinsmen had let down their guard. It appeared that hope came with a very high price these days.

Shifting his position, Éomer gritted his teeth as another bolt of agony travelled through his nerve-endings from his pierced shoulder - he knew it had been pierced for he could feel the iron tip of the bolt scrape over the rock behind him whenever he moved his back, and the back of his tunic felt sticky and slick with blood. Gríma's potion had brought part of his strength back, but it had also increased the amount of pain he felt from a dull throbbing to a thunderstorm of hurt which made it increasingly hard for him to focus. Despite the morning chill, his brow was already beaded with sweat.

The fleeting reflection of something bright at the rock wall opposite his position brought Éomer back from his inner musings. What - the merest notion of a movement. The king narrowed his eyes in an attempt to make out what exactly it was that had caught his attention: something grey and furry. Something that did not want to be seen. Straining even more, he concentrated on the spot behind the empty branches of a dried-up bush, and there it was again, just for a heartbeat - the notion of the first light of the day reflecting on golden hair. Éomer shifted his view at once away from it, choosing to let his eyes rest on a pair of horses some wild-looking humans who appeared to be Dunlendings were loading with supplies, and his heart missed a beat. It had only been a brief glimpse, but since he had not seen Elana among her rounded-up family, he had already been worrying for the girl. Now he knew where she was, and her position was even better than he could have hoped for!

Taking a care not to let the direction of his gaze betray the girl's position to his enemies, Éomer's eyes strayed up and over the outcropping he had seen her on again, this time accompanied by an urgent prayer.

'_For Eorl's sake, Elana, take your horse and ride to Edoras! Raise the alarm! Call help!'_

His lips formed a grim line as he imagined how it would be to have Edoras' Royal Guard and the majority of the remaining éoreds come to their aid and once and for all kill this orc-scum that soiled the ground of the Mark through their sheer presence, but he would not let them kill Gríma. Gríma... after all that writhing, stinking, poisonous snake had done to his kin and country, Éomer would claim the privilege of bringing Rohan's bane to justice entirely for himself - and this time, the stinking rat's death would be very real, and certainly not a merciful and quick beheading...

Revelling in his thoughts of vengeance for a while longer, Éomer finally noticed the object of his violent reflections walking towards him with the two Uruk-hai captains that always seemed to accompany him. Not knowing what was to come, he tensed. The dark counsellor came to a halt in front of him and stared down taxingly while his hands played with a heavy-looking chain.

"It is time, my lord...I hope you rested as I told you to, as this is going to be a very long, hard day, and it looks like you are not in the best of conditions, if I may say so." A brief sparkle of malevolent pleasure accompanied Wormtongue's words as he passed the chain to the creature to his right. "Put this around his neck."

For a moment, Éomer thought of resistance as he watched the Uruk squat down beside him with wary eyes. Pride forbade for him to suffer any slight through the hands of an enemy willingly. Giving in would be the first step towards giving himself up.

'_No! No use.'_

It took a fierce effort to push the thought aside. There was nothing he could do, and fighting an impossible fight would only worsen his condition. There was no way of telling whether Gríma would grant him the opportunity for an escape attempt, but if it came, it would be foolish having to let it pass because he had no strength left to make use of it. The metal band was closed around his neck with an audible sound which pierced his heart with its finality, yet Éomer refused to let his despair show. He looked up, jaw set, at the one who was holding the other end of the chain.

"What is your plan, filth? Where are we going?"

Pale blue eyes met his unflinchingly. Oh yes, Gríma enjoyed looking down on him for a change! What a triumph for him to finally have the one who had opposed him even during the days of his secret reign over Rohan on his knees, and at his mercy!

"You shall see soon enough, my liege. Now get up and remember: any kind of disobedience will result in the death of one of your kinsmen."

The long hours on the cold ground had done their work to a point where the king found it almost impossible to follow Wormtongue's order: after being chained to the rock for the entire night, his arms were numb, his legs stiff, and as soon he began to move his battered body, the real extent of his injuries could no longer be denied by his stubborn mind When Éomer finally made it to his feet, he was drenched in sweat and his middle and upper body were throbbing like a rotting tooth. In addition, it felt as if all of Rohan's blacksmiths were busy in the limited space between his ears, pounding their hammers into the delicate, soft matter inside his head in a steady rhythm to get out. It was a major achievement to have made it to his feet on his own, an accomplishment of his still iron will, but then he would sooner die than let Gálmód's son triumph over him.

"Bind his hands behind his back!"

The Uruk-hai grunted their affirmation and went to work; one seizing the king in a grip which would snap his neck if he put up resistance while the other one opened the chains around his wrists, only to draw back his arms and lock them again even tighter on his back. The pull on his bad arm drained the colour from Éomer's face.

"You must be very afraid of me, snake," he spat, not able to bite back his contempt any longer. "Your prisoner is injured and in chains, and still you choose to hide behind the broad backs of your Uruk-hai. They may be loathsome, vile creatures, but at least they possess courage, which is more than can be said of you!"

"You would be well counselled to keep that heated tongue of yours behind your teeth, my lord," his adversary sneered in a low, dangerous voice. "Or shall I rather say, it would be in your kinsmen's best interest? The Gods know I am in a charitable mood today, which is why I will not punish you for your words, but be warned that this may be subject to change if you continue in this fashion. I may not feel like burning the rest of this clan's belongings, yet, but I dare not say how I might feel about it an hour from now. If you insist, I shall leave nothing but the black ashes of their tents behind." Gríma countered Éomer's glare with a meaningful side-glance at the watching herdsmen.

Again it was Fréod's face that brought the king to his senses. Slowly tilting his head to the right against the Uruk-hai's firm grip, Éomer found the eyes of Elana's clan directed at himself, their faces full of fright and worry. Their destiny seemed to lie solely in his hands. They had already lost their winter supplies and their horses. If help did not arrive soon, they would have to starve. Éomer would not have them suffer even more, like the loss of their shelter and their few possessions, only because their king persisted on keeping his pride intact.

The surge of fury abated. He needed to keep a cool head; he could not afford to let others bleed for his rage. All his adult life he had been roaming the Mark in protection of his people; he would not burden his conscience now by becoming responsible for their misery, particularly now since the faces he was staring at appeared to be more concerned for him than for themselvesSobering at the discovery, he exchanged a meaningful look with the clan's leader.

'_Do not fear for me,_' his expression said. '_I can hold my own.'_ At least he hoped so. Gríma obviously did not want to kill him, at least not yet. This was a knowledge Éomer hoped he would be able to use to his advantage, even though he could not begin to think of a way just yet.

"The hour is getting late, my lord," Gríma spoke into his thoughts, his courteous tone in stark contrast to the implied meaning of his words. "We must move, as your presence is highly anticipated in other parts of your kingdom. We must not let your people wait."

A broad hand pressed against Éomer's back and pushed him toward a bay horse the two Dunlendings he had observed earlier were holding ready for him. The king's heart sank as he took in the appearance of his new mount: being of under-average height, the poor creature was severely underfed to the point where its ribs were clearly visible through its dull hide, and the thin legs seemed barely fit to support its own weight. This was no steed to stage his escape with. Firefoot... he needed Firefoot, more now than ever. Even with his hands tied on his back and thus unable to shift his weight to not hinder his steed's speed , Éomer was sure that the grey stallion would have been able to carry him to safety and even outrun the two wargs he spotted now for the first time at the head of Wormtongue's army. But such musings were useless. By the look of things, his trusted horse was lying dead among the rest of its kin further behind in the valley. He would have to find another way.

Not wanting to give away either his disappointment nor his true condition through his posture, Éomer straightened as he walked down the cordon between the patiently waiting Uruk-hai, his bruised and battered body crying out in pain. Roaring laughter rose as he briefly stumbled in the mud and almost fell to his knees. Insults were shouted at him, but he blocked them out, instead focussing on the horse they led him to. But then something shiny tumbled into his path, and he could not help himself, he had to see what it was. The sight of a blood-spattered, pierced cuirass froze his blood. He recognised it instantly, and a different kind of pain assaulted his senses. Éothain, his trusted marshal and brother-in-arms of many years... Léod, the nineteen year-old, keen-eyed scout he had moved into his personal éored only shortly after his return from Gondor... all the others... all were dead. nineteen men had been gruesomely slain last night, nineteen of Rohan's best warriors. The last man standing - was he. The question was for how much longer.

Something hit him in the chest and fell to the ground to the rising roar of the surrounding creatures: Éothain's helmet. And another one. A third one. Éomer closed his eyes, not wanting to see the devastating hail of his dead soldiers' belongings. Another helmet hit his thigh, then, suddenly, a sharp voice rang out.

"Enough! We have much ground to cover today, and we need to move! I know you are impatient to pay him back for the massacre which has been committed against your kind! There will be a time for your vengeance, but it is not now. Seat him on the horse, and then we shall be on our way. Rohan is waiting for us!"

They lifted him onto the unsaddled horse, an action which alone was an insult to any self-respecting Rohir, and fastened a second chain to the iron collar around his neck, the end of which was fastened to the saddle of the guard to his right, another blow to the king's feeble last remainders of hope. Now he was secured from two sides by chains, his weak horse bound to a third guard in front of him, and his hands tied behind his back. Gríma Wormtongue was too cunning to take any chances with his valuable prisoner. If Éomer was to escape from his foe's grasp, something unexpected would have to happen. His eyes again sought out the outcropping where he had seen the girl earlier, but there was nothing left to see for him. The king hoped that she was already on her way to Edoras.

A rising roar woke him with a jolt as the Uruk-hai screamed their affirmation to their master's command, so powerfully, it shook the surrounding mountains. The guard in front of him spurred his horse, and Éomer's own steed broke into a well-paced trot, followed by a host of running orcs. The last thing the captured king saw before the winding path blocked his view was the image of the frightened herdsmen in front of their burnt-down barn.


	8. Mind Games

_**For Disclaimer, please see Chapter 1**_

_Rohan Nitpick: Thanks for dropping by! Yes, I know I have a tendency to go to great length with my fics, but I'm enjoying myself so much, LOL! (As this is one sick and twisted chapter, I'm a bit worried what this tells about me...)_

_Eokat: Yes, isn't it strange how there are not a lot of Rohan/ Èomer-stories to enjoy? At least they have finally updated the character-option with his name! Thank you for your encouragement!_

_Lady Baelish: Wow, my longest review! I love it! It means a lot to me that you like the way I'm writing Gríma, because – frankly – I was a bit concerned about how the Gríma-fans would respond to my depiction of him in this story. He's a REAL baddie in this chapter, as well. But while I'm not a fan, I must confess that it's fun to write him. And if there is one universal truth (at least for me) for movies and stories, it's that a story stands and falls with the quality of the villain. For the hero to shine, you need a strong, intelligent adversary – the best example in movie-history for me being Alan Rickman in the first DIE HARD. _

_Also, thank you for encouraging me to change the rating to PG-13. I thought it was too dark for it, but if you tell me it isn't, I'll gladly go down with the rating. And while there are some pretty dark scenes yet to come, I think I am just not the one to describe blood & gore in all detail. And hey, what do you mean by Éomer coming off as "surprisingly" human, eh? ;- As for your hunch about Gríma's fate... well, we'll see... evil laugh _

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****Chapter 8: Mind Games**

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Elana sat silently on the ridge high above her clan's invaded settlement, in a place she had carefully chosen. Where she sat, the wind blew into her face, making it impossible for the wargs she had seen to pick up her scent, and Áriel was back in the secret cave. Deep in thought, she watched the host of nightmare creatures break camp and take the king with them. What was she supposed to do now? The burden which lay upon her back was the hardest she had ever felt.

The way to Edoras was blocked. There was no way to clear the fallen rocks with a horse. For the same reason, she could not use the two mountain paths in the valley, which led her to the question of how their enemies had managed to bring their own horses with them. Was there a way somewhere, some connection through a secret cave nobody knew of? It was hard to believe. Still, she could not afford to lose valuable time searching for it. The way the young woman understood the situation, there were really only two paths of action open to her, and both involved going the same way the enemy went, as there was no other way out of the meara-valley. Of course, since the path wound almost directly westward through the Ered Nimrais, it also meant that each step would take her further away from Edoras - and capable help.

The young woman was torn between two choices: she could ride ahead of Éomer's captors and alarm the settlements that lay on the way, but it would be a risky course of action. She could not be sure about where they were headed yet, and risk to lose them. If she knew one thing, it was that their young king would die if help did not arrive soon. Any delays in his rescue would come at a very high price, a fact which turned her thoughts toward the second risk: she knew nothing about the size of the other settlements' éoreds. The nearest one, situated one and a half day's journey further west was not large. Sometimes, her family had taken the trip to celebrate Midsummer with their fellow countrymen, but as far as Elana remembered, she had never seen more than fifty people at that place, women and children included. While a full éored consisted of one hundred and twenty riders, only Edoras and a few more settlements in the Westfold were populated enough to both man and equip them. As most of the others were basically self-contained when it came to their protection - a tribute to their often extreme remoteness - it was possible for an éored to consist of no more than ten men, hardly enough to fight the enemy they were faced with.

There was another risk: with the winter wind mostly blowing from the west, the wargs - and maybe those horrible dark things as well, would be able to pick up her scent. Áriel was fast and could probably outrun a warg, but the idea of one or even two of those huge, savage predators on her heels made her very afraid. There had to be another way.

So, what else could she possibly do? Ride after them, keep out of their sight and reach and observe... until she was sure which way they were headed? Was this the way to go? It sounded awfully passive. Cowardly. Elana did not like the feel of it at all, but as she glanced down again into the quickly emptying gorge below, she understood that it was the path she would have to go down at least for the first part of the journey. It was too late by now to ride ahead. She would wait a little, and then follow the broad track the enemy would inevitably leave at a safe distance.

The sun had passed its highest point behind the mighty mountain peaks, but its bright face could no longer be seen from below. A thick layer of dark, rain-promising clouds had - around midday - first assaulted the light, and shortly afterwards, a slight, uncomfortable drizzle had started to fall. The Uruk-hai, of course, did not mind. They did not mind cold, or heat, or pain; they knew neither fear, nor fatigue, nor exhaustion. They had already been running for the better part of the day, putting the leagues behind them without a single break. If anything, the horses would probably need a break before they would.

Éomer had experienced the legendary stamina of the White Wizard's creatures before, but only now, as he observed them more closely in order to find a possible weakness in the ferocious fighting-machines, did he notice just how hopeless his situation really was. All in all, he estimated Gríma's army consisted of somewhere between one hundred and fifty and one hundred and eighty, most of them Uruks and a few Dunlendings. His éored had undoubtedly done some damage, but even so, it would take a massive force to pose a serious threat to his captors. The young king knew that one of his marshals, Elfhelm, had to be somewhere in the region they were travelling through. The older warrior had left Edoras three weeks earlier to inspect the progression of the repair work at Helm's Deep and to see how things were at Isengard further to the west. With a little luck, they'd run into him and his éored. Yet Éomer also remembered clearly enough that - due to the post-war lack of men and horses - Elfhelm had only taken about fifty riders along with him when he left, not nearly enough to take on a battle with Wormtongue's Uruk-hai.

Inwardly sighing to himself, Éomer redirected his gaze from the steady up and down of broad, dark backs in front of him to the surrounding landscape. They had reached the high plains of the Westmark and continued west on one of the main mountain roads. If they did not change direction, they would reach the Gap of Rohan in about three days. The chance that Elfhelm and his men were still around was not that small. Against better knowledge, the king found himself occasionally scanning the distant hills for the uplifted tips of spears.

Another thought entered his head and added to the chill the slight drizzle had planted in his body: a number of smaller settlements lay along the way they were taking. Gríma appeared to deliberately avoid the larger ones, which would be armed well enough to put up resistance and maybe cause him problems on his way. The 'lesson' he had been talking about... it would no doubt be brought as a punishment to the unprepared clans of the remote Westfold, first, the nearest of which they would reach in about another day's journey. What did Galmod's son have in mind? A massacre as a humiliation of his foe? To demonstrate how truly powerless he was? The thought alone made the king shudder. What could he do to prevent it?

Not having anything else to brood over or occupy his mind with, Éomer shifted his attention to the horse carrying him. It appeared to be a simple beast, no pure-bred Rohirric war-horse with meara-blood in its veins, but then again, its trot was swift enough and it did not flinch from the vile running creatures that surrounded them, a credit to the animal's courage. There were few horses that could endure the presence of both orcs and wargs, their worst natural enemies. Maybe it was a better steed than he had originally thought. Maybe... maybe it would prove useful to him, yet, if the opportunity for an escape would present itself.

'_And how likely is that?'_ the voice of reason within the back of his mind sneered. '_With two guards holding on to the chain around your neck, your hands tied on your back and neither saddle nor bridle to direct your horse with, which - lastly - is also bound to the one in front of you! If you want to escape, you might have a better chance to wait for the night and sneak away in the darkness.'_

Right. Éomer harboured no doubt that Gríma would find something to chain him to for the night, and sneaking away from two patrolling wargs and a host of Uruk-hai would be a deed worthy of many songs, a deed he could hardly hope to accomplish. No, his only hope lay within the animal that was carrying him. The question was how responsive it was. Having been on horseback since before he could properly walk, Éomer, like all Rohirrim, knew that under normal circumstances, he would be able to direct a horse of Rohirric upbringing simply through use of his legs and bodyweight, and his own sense of balance would not let him slip from its bare back even at a full-speed canter. He possessed the necessary riding skills, but what about his steed?

Casting a secret glance at the surroundings guards, the king found to his satisfaction that the long, steady-paced journey seemed to have lulled them into a stupor, for they did not appear to pay overly much attention to their prisoner and were lagging a bit behind. Very well.

Very lowly, too lowly almost for his own ears, he began to hum, a soothing, calming sound in pace with the animal's steps. His efforts were rewarded with a first, slight twitch of the bay's ears, first one, then the other. It heard him. It was paying attention. A very slight smile tugged at the king's mouth, but he strangled the life out of it with a quick look at Wormtongue's dark silhouette further ahead. The animal was listening. Very well. A few low clicks with his tongue, and both brown ears turned backwards, in fact the horse was almost turning its entire head now.

Time to take the next, slightly more difficult step. He had to be subtle about this. If the horse responded too rashly to his efforts, his enemies would know at once what he was up to and think up further measures to make his escape impossible.

'_You will not betray me, will you, horse of Rohan?'_ he thought - and applied pressure to the beast with his right thigh. A simultaneous, subtle shift of his weight - and his steed responded. Only with a slight change in direction, very accidental-looking to the surrounding guards. Except it wasn't! Excitement took a hold of Éomer as he repeated the whole procedure to the other side. Again, the inconspicuous animal performed flawlessly and confirmed to the man it was carrying that it had indeed once been the mount of a capable rider. Not of a Rohirric soldier, because it was too short to be used in battle, but a person experienced in the art of becoming one with his horse. It knew helps and orders given in the subtlest ways, even without saddle or bridle. The only question still open was the one concerning its speed and endurance. There were only four other horses among Gríma's army as far as Éomer could see: One belonging to the dark counsellor himself, and three more to the guards around him, which looked suspiciously like Dunlendings to Éomer. Dunlendings - since when could they ride? They would be no match for him, and their steeds didn't look much better than his own. Gríma - would probably not chase after him if he ran. His adversary was smart enough to know that he could very quickly turn from hunter to prey if only the slightest chance for revenge would present itself to his prisoner, and even with the bolt in his shoulder, Éomer was sure he had what it took to kill Wormtongue single-handedly. That left as his main obstacle the two warg-riders. He knew from experience that wargs could - at a short distance - outrun almost every horse. Would the small bay horse he was sitting on be able to stay ahead of them over a distance of maybe half a league?

'_How big is your heart, my friend? Big enough to carry us both to safety?'_

Resuming his humming, Éomer watched with silent satisfaction the effect on his steed. He could be mistaken, but it felt more relaxed beneath him. The king chanced a quick glance to both sides. The guards were still not paying attention, and the level of noise from the grunting and panting Uruk-hai seemed loud enough for him to switch to a very low, Rohirric chant that barely required him to move his lips. The horse snorted and held now both ears constantly in his direction. Its movements became soft and fluent under his weight. It was his now for the taking. Inwardly cursing about not having his hands free to stroke the animal's neck and thus confirming their newly-formed bond as he did with each horse he broke in, Éomer's thoughts returned to one of the few happier memories of the last years before the war, a memory tied to the same place they were riding through right now...

"I can tell there is something on your mind, brother. Why don't you tell me?" Eowyn's face was flushed from the onslaught of the wind, as she slowed down the bay mare from a breathtaking canter to a trot, and finally, to a walk. The animal was breathing hard after the race, but the way it proudly held its head and tail up high, she could tell it had enjoyed the wild chase as much as its rider. Riding bareback, with the feeling of the mighty muscles moving beneath her and with nothing to hold on to but the mare's long flowing mane, the experience had been as close to actually becoming one with her steed as possible. The rush of excitement was still making her reel as she turned around to face her brother, her long, golden hair flowing like a banner in the wind, wild and free. "What is it, Éomer? You did not expect to lose, did you?" she laughed.

Éomer looked at her in wonder, his heart suddenly aching with overwhelming love he felt for his younger sister. '_I should bring her along more often,'_ he thought, unable to take his eyes from Éowyn's radiant smile, a sight he had not seen in months, if not years. The stiff, tense bearing she always displayed at the Golden Hall had changed to that of a young, carefree woman with a hunger for life. '_Far away from that snake's_ _influence. The poison of his sick mind cannot touch her out here.'_ He returned her smile and directed Firefoot alongside her mare.

"I do not envy you the triumph, dear sister, but you won because you are by far the lesser burden to your steed," he teased her good-naturedly and allowed his stallion to bump into the slender bay's side. "But even so, I have to agree that the mare appears to be a good pick. A suitable birthday present for the White Lady of Rohan, even if its colour is wrong."

Éowyn sighed theatrically.

"When will the day come when my proud brother, Third Marshal of Riddermark, will honestly admit he has been beaten by a woman at a fair game?" she laughed, her eyes sparkling. "Tell me, will I live to see it?"

"You may, but 'twas hardly a fair game," he gave back, cracking a big, brotherly grin at her. "Let us ride back, stuff you into the heaviest armour we can find and load a few bags of sand on your horse's back as well. Then we'll repeat the race and shall see who emerges as the winner." Éowyn groaned and moved as if to hit him, but of course, he blocked her and seized her wrist in an iron grip. "Now, _this _would be a game you would most definitely lose at, sister, but I would not call this fair, either. Only this time, it would be _your_ disadvantage."

"Maybe so, but I could beat you with the sword. You know I have won in battle against several men of your éored already."

"I must admit that I heard about this rumour." He released her wrist, and even though he had been gentle, Éowyn pretended that she had to rub it to renew the flow of blood to her fingers. "But even so, there is a reason why I am their marshal." The grin was back. No way would he have his younger sister win a battle of words on his own turf. "You could not beat _me,_ and I suggest you do not try, for I would not want to crush my sister's high spirits before we return to Edoras." At the last moment, he realised his mistake and bit down hard on his tongue, but it was already too late. The shadow of dread had already returned to Éowyn's face and caused the smile to falter so quickly and thoroughly that it seemed to have been but a brief illusion of happiness. Cursing himself for his stupidity, Éomer frantically sought for a way to undo the harm he had done, but it was she who spoke first.

"Éomer... I don't want to go back to Edoras." The sight of his sister's dismay pierced Éomer's heart. "I cannot tell you how much I dread it, this feeling of foreboding and decay... the oppressive silence in the dark halls..." Her eyes stared into the void. "Our uncle's illness... the decline of our kingdom... and the haunting echoes of _his_ steps... I don't know how much longer I can take this." She finally turned to look at him, her gaze pleading. But what could he do?

"Éowyn... you know I have to leave for the northern borders very soon, and I cannot let you stay here unprotected. There are too many fell things going on in the Mark these days, and most of the time, it is the smaller settlements that fall prey to them. At least you will be safe at Edoras. I doubt they are feeling strong enough yet to attack us there."

"I would rather fight a host of orcs than face the evil which is ruling Meduseld," she rebuked harshly, and her tone did not leave him any choice other than giving it back. "You cannot imprison me in this tomb for the living forever while you take every chance to flee from it yourself!"

Éomer's eyes flared up in sudden anger.

"Flee from it? Our people need protection, sister, that is why I'm constantly gone! Do you not think I would rather stay and fight that snake in our own halls to keep him from spilling his poison across our lands?"

Éowyn did not flinch under his hard stare.

"But you expect _me_ to fight that fight, and all alone, too!"

"No, Éowyn! I expect you to take care of our uncle, not to fight Gríma, and I expect you to stay out of harm's way until we can concern ourselves with him. Is that so hard to understand?"

"I do not wish to be left behind like a child or weak, old woman every time the men ride out to protect our country! I have proven myself to be a good rider and fighter, and Rohan is in dire need of those!"

"We will go back tomorrow, like I said, and I will say no more." He brusquely turned Firefoot around. "It will be dark soon. Let us go back."

"You are thinking of _her..."_

Wormtongue's voice spoke into his brooding and pulled him back into grim reality. Éomer tensed and felt his stomach twist into a knot, his usual reaction to the dark counsellor mentioning his sister. Éowyn's harsh words were still in his mind, even more vividly now with Rohan's bane riding so close to him. He had to fight to keep a bland face; he did not want to show his foe how close he had hit to the mark.

"I can see it in your eyes. I think of her, too, sometimes, quite often, in fact, but I believe my confession is hardly a surprise to you." Gríma had reined in his horse until he had fallen back far enough to talk to his prisoner. A gesture ordered the guard on Éomer's right side to fall back for as far as the chain let him. Now they were almost riding side by side... like good friends. The thought sickened the king, and Gríma's words caused his blood to boil to a point where he found it impossible to further ignore him. Too much, in fact, to even be able to cast more than a brief glance out of the corner of his eye without trying to find a way to strangle the snake with his bound hands. When he finally found his voice for a reply, it sounded cold and hard like steel.

"She is out of your reach, snake. You can do whatever you want to me, but at least she won't have to endure your lecherous looks anymore. Just the thought of you used to make her sick." His eyes remained fixed on a group of leafless trees up ahead.

To his surprise, Gríma smiled. Not looking at his adversary, Éomer did not see it, but he heard it nevertheless.

"And _you _would be the one who knew how she felt about me."

'_Just what is he insinuating?'_

Éomer snorted.

"Everybody knew. She wore it on her sleeve. If you failed to notice, it was probably because in your greedy mind, you already possessed her! You never had a care for how she felt about you, because Saruman would have given her to you either way. And to bend her to your will, you would probably have subdued her with the help of one of your potions." It was a frightening thought. He looked over. Strangely enough, Wormtongue was still smiling, but it was not the malicious expression he had expected. A faraway, wistful shadow lay on his pale features before he turned to face the king.

"Her will? What would _you_ know about her will? You were never there to hear the bitter words she spoke to herself in her loneliness; a wild, free spirit stuck in a cage by the traditions of your people and the stubbornness of her own brother! I was drawn to her because of that spirit. Not in a thousand years would I have tried to destroy it."

Éomer's brow furrowed. He had been ready to shoot back with an acid reply to any of Gríma's rebukes, but this confession caught him off guard - all the more as it sounded perfectly honest.

'_You know he's always been a master of words,'_ he reminded himself. '_Do not fall_ _prey to his malicious insinuations!'_ But even so, the young king could not prevent himself from feeling a sharp pang of guilt as he thought about the counsellor's accusations. It was true: when - after becoming a warrior at the age of sixteen - had he ever been there for Éowyn for longer than a mere few days, except for the period where an injury he had sustained in battle had forced him to withdraw from active duty for an entire summer? His éored had been constantly on the move in protection of the eastern borders of the Mark, and through his skill and dedication he had climbed up the hierarchy so fast that he had soon made himself indispensable, a valiant, skilful warrior with a fierce sense of loyalty.

Some would have called him a driven soul, a man who searched for valour in battle because he was lacking elsewhere, and as much as he would have objected to the notion in the presence of others, Éomer knew that deep down inside it was probably true. Ever since the death of their parents, he had been running away... from the feeling of loss, his own inability to deal with the situation, to stand up to his inner feelings. Instead, he had tried to fill in for his father - an eleven-year-old boy fiercely watching out for his seven-year-old sister and never allowing anyone to get close enough to hurt her. Éowyn had been the only family left to him, and at his mother's deathbed he had sworn himself to protect her any way that he could, whether it meant by defeating their enemies on the battlefield or by keeping her out of harm's way at Edoras.

Gríma's head turned around to finally face him. Something in his face twitched as he recognised the result of his words in his prisoner's expression.

"Yes, it was _you_ who put her into the cage... you and your uncle." It was uncanny how that snake seemed to be able to look right into his head and read his mind. Stubbornly, Éomer stared at the broad back of the Uruk-hai in front of him. "By over-protecting her, by making her feel useless, and weak, like someone who could not hold her own. You never acknowledged her riding and battle skills. Of course, you practised with her, you saw how good she was and how much she craved to join you in your constant fight, but each time the Rohirrim rode into battle, you ordered her to stay behind like some old woman. And when she finally pleaded to be allowed to ride with you, you looked at her as if she had lost her mind, and maybe she had."

Éomer's head snapped around.

"Watch your tongue, snake, or-"

"Or what?" Gríma did not flinch under the dark, diamond-hard stare. He had the king where he had wanted him all along - had pried his fingers deeply into his most vulnerable spot. Oh yes, the potion worked. One of his favourite recipes; one that had worked wonders on the late King Théoden, as well. At first, it seemed to lend the fatigued patient strength, but once the body had broken down the revitalising ingredient of the potion, the ensuing weakness would be even worse than before. And then there was the other part of it, the one that kept the mind of the unsuspecting victim wide open to suggestions of any kind..."Do you remember that incident from four years back, you had just received your first serious wound in a battle and had to drop from active duty for quite a long period..."

Éomer's eyes became narrow slits.

"What about it?"

"What would you say if I told you that your sister was envying you? For all the attention you received, the concern of your people and the honour that went with surviving a battle where the chances had been against you. She would have traded with you in a second and gladly accepted the price, but since she was denied that possibility, she thought that the pain served you right. In her eyes, you had been punished for the way you treated her. In her mind, your enemies had avenged her! What would you say?"

"I would call you a liar, just what you have always been. A sick creature that thrives on the misery of others and enjoys enhancing the other's hurt by whispering poisonous words into their ears." There was a cold fury in the king's voice, but no conviction. Gríma could tell that he was definitely making progress. Oh, this was delightful!

"But it is the truth."

"Coming from your lips?" Éomer spat. "Say what you will, it is something your twisted brain has conceived. It has nothing to do with the truth. Even if Éowyn had harboured such feelings, she would have never told you. She would rather have told me."

"You are wrong, for she _did_ tell me." Gríma allowed himself a sly smile. "Right there in your room, actually. You were sleeping, and she was tending you when I entered to find out how you were faring. We had just heard the healer's news that you were likely to recover completely in the course of time. Very good tidings, I deemed, especially for your sister... but her expression was not joyful when I entered. It was... rather sad. I asked her why, and so she told me."

Éomer could not think of a reply, his mind seemed to be void, shocked into numbness. Éowyn - having taken delight in his pain - and confiding in their greatest enemy about it? It could not be! But he could not think clearly anymore. It had to be one of Wormtongue's lies. If only he could have been sure!

Sensing his prisoner's growing distress, Gríma bent forward in his saddle to whisper with great confidentiality: "It appears to me that I know more about your sister's secrets than you, her brother and only kin. Tell me, Éomer, King of Rohan, if you think you two are so close, how can this be? How can a man that you thought your sister despised as much as you do have access to all of her secret wishes and desires, whereas you - the brother who swore to keep her from harm - have not?" He paused and waited for a reply, but it was very clear that his words had stunned the king into silence. "You do not know? Well, I believe I should give you the time to think about it, then. We shall continue our talk about your beautiful and enigmatic sister tonight. Maybe you will have found some answers. Until then." He spurred his horse and went to reclaim his place at the top of the procession. The seed had been planted. Tonight, there would be more of the potion. Slowly but surely, Éomer of Rohan's mind would be pried open - and then corrupted until his vengeance would be complete. If he did this right, the king would die by his own hands...


	9. The Endless Night

_For Disclaimer, please see Chapter 1_

_Lady Baelish: Tears from malicious bliss, huh? Well, take my advise: Keep your Kleenex ready for this chapter, or your make-up will end up utterly ruined! Finally, Gríma's cards are on the table…_

_Kezya: Wonderful to hear from you again. Yes, a rattlesnake is nothing against good 'ole Gríma, isn't it? My, I never knew how many disturbing thoughts I had in my head until began writing this story… Great also to hear that you will be updating "Betrayal of Trust" soon (poor Éomer though… ;- )._

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****Chapter** **9: The Endless Night**

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The darkness was almost complete. The blackness of the new moon lay like a silken blanket on the land and even the comforting faces of the stars were veiled from searching glances by a layer of clouds. Sky, mountains and the ground, all were one in the middle of the darkest night Elana had ever encountered.

Never in the nine winters since her parents had perished - her father in a warg-attack, her mother from a fever - had she felt so utterly alone. Sitting in the middle of nowhere with her back to the wall with no one to talk to, no one to confide in and no one to give her courage, she wondered whether she was really doing the right thing. Her family thought she was on her way to Edoras, when instead she was following Éomer's captors. They thought she would bring them help, and food - something they would especially need very fast with their winters supplies gone. What if something happened to her out here? What if one of the wargs that travelled with these nightmarish creatures patrolled the night and found her sitting here, unsuspecting? What if it was watching her right now?

'_Nay, it isn't,'_ she admonished herself, stuffing the last bite of the flat cake she had taken along as provision into her mouth, her gaze wistfully resting on the small, flickering dots of fire she could see in the distance, the campfires of their enemiesHow much she longed for a little more light and the comforting warmth of a campfire, but it would require an act of utter stupidity to build one herself for every foe to see. '_Stay calm. Áriel would smell them if they were close, wouldn't you, Áriel?'_ Elana turned her head and looked lovingly at the ghostly pale appearance of her horse peacefully grazing close by.

"Áriel?" Stretching her legs, Elana scrambled to her feet and walked over to her, hungering for a little warmth and comfort. The mare lifted her head at her approach, but stayed still and allowed her to lay her arms around her slender neck. Maybe she was feeling just as lonely as she did, out here in the darkness with none of her kin present, with no shelter from the falling rain and blowing wind. Winter was approaching fast, and with nothing to eat, how would her clan survive it?

Survival... she wondered how Éomer would spend the night. Would he even survive it? What if the arrow had hit something vital, or had been poisoned? What if he had lost too much blood? Her hands moved in circles over the muscular, warm neck of her horse, and the touch of a living, breathing creature soothed her anxious mind for a moment.

'He is a warrior, he is strong! One arrow cannot be enough to kill him. Of course he is still alive!' '- But you saw the things that captured him! What if they only took him with them as live food?'

Gods, what a disgusting thought! They had not killed her family, so they would surely not eat the king! Elana was dismayed by the awful thoughts that assaulted her from that pit of her very active imagination. It had to be the darkness that spawned them. Everything looked better in the daylight, and come dusk, she would ride in a great circle around their foes and make for the nearest settlement. After one day of following them, she was certain now that this was the place the darkly clad man and his army were headed. With luck, she could warn them and tell them to get ready to free their king.

'_Will they believe me?'_

Elana had no time to follow that thought further, for her horse had suddenly stopped grazing and stood now like a statue, listening, eyes wide, her flared nostrils drinking the wind. Elana's heart skipped a beat. What was ailing her mare? Desperately trying to pierce the darkness, she stood at the horse's side, ready to jump on the animal's back at the first sign of trouble. Her nerves tingled. Even then, if it was the wargs, it would probably be too late: she knew how fast the orc-wolves were. A good head start was needed in order to outrun them. So what now? Run? Not run? Standing there under the black sky, electrified and fully expecting to see the sparkle of the predators' eyes in front of her any second now, Elana almost screamed when her mare suddenly gave a short snort and then whinnied.

"Ssh, Áriel! Quiet!" she said, and then she felt it, too, the concussion of heavy steps on the ground, a rhythmic noise coming closer. Someone was approaching them fast. But who? Friend or foe? Before she could think of anything to do, her mare started forward with a muffled neigh, her neck proudly arched, just as a tall grey figure materialised from the blackness in front of her, unreal like a vision: A great, muscular horse, easily twice Áriel's size, was moving towards them in an majestic, powerful trot meant to impress; its grey hide marred with many dark stains. Threateningly throwing its massive head and then arching the strong neck, it finally rammed its hooves into the ground and - half rearing - came to a stop to taste their scents with widely flared nostrils, its eyes rolling menacingly, daring them to move closer. There was no rider on its back, nor was there a saddle, but it wore wearing an artfully crafted bridle Elana had seen before. The sight of the great stallion robbed her breath.

"Firefoot!"

"Food, my lord. You need to eat!"

The pleasant smell of roasted meat woke Éomer from the daze he had been in ever since they had raised camp for the night. Not surprisingly, he was still chained to a tree, more hanging than sitting and unable to lie down even though he felt too weak to stay upright. All strength he had miraculously possessed after what had happened to him the night before, and which had enabled him to spend the long day on horseback without needing support, had deserted him now and left him feeling hollow and feeble as if in the claws of a terrible illness. His shoulder was a fiery pit of molten agony, and he felt feverish, too, his teeth clattering with cold one minute before the sensation of burning up flushed through his body and made him break into a sweat in the next.

It took a huge effort just to raise his head as the spit was once again held in front of his face. Somewhere behind it hovered Gríma's pale face. Not wanting to look at his adversary, Éomer shut his eyes tightly.

"Curse you, snake..." The king had meant to shout, but was unable to summon the necessary strength. Even a sneer seemed to be too much in the state he was in. He could not even spit on the offered meat like the night before, his mouth being dry as desert sand. Another shudder ran through his body. His constitution was deteriorating frighteningly fast.

"But you have to eat, my king. You see where your stubbornness has gotten you." Wormtongue shook his head in mock compassion. "Where should your strength come from if you starve yourself? The potion alone will not sustain you for long, I'm afraid."

"You're _afraid_?" Éomer opened his eyes, for a moment seeing two blurry Grímas in front of him. "What do you still need me for, anyway?"

"You won't have to wait much longer now to find out, son of Éomund. Tomorrow around midday, you shall know more." Gríma paused and held out the spit once more, but his prisoner just turned his head to the side and shut his eyes again, uttering an involuntary groan as the movement sent another bolt of pain through his side. "You don't want to eat. Well, I will have mercy on you for now, seeing how this whole business I'm putting you through has certainly damaged your appetite, but from tomorrow on, you will eat, or I shall have the food forced down your throat. Do you hear me, _my lord_?"

Éomer spared himself an answer.

"Let me see your shoulder again." Now his prisoner responded - by flinching. With a meaningful look at his Uruk-hai captains, Wormtongue moved forth and grasped the crossbow bolt closely above the angry red skin of his shoulder, forcing an anguished groan from the king as he slid one finger nail deep into the wound. Éomer fought against this torment, but was no match for the brute strength of the two orcs holding him.

"My lord, please - you must hold still! My aim is not to hurt you, but to determine whether the wound is already festering. If you move around like this, I will not be able to help you!" Gríma retracted the finger and held it in front of his nose, the pale blue eyes staring at his foe who - under his breath - muttered a few well-chosen curses in his direction before leaning back, utterly spent. Wormtongue faked a hurt expression.

"Ah, well... such is the fate of all healers, I guess, to be the subject of intensive swearing for only wanting to do good."

"You - the most poisonous viper of the Mark, a healer?" Éomer would have laughed had he found the strength in himself. Another flash of heat brought beads sweat to his brow.

Gríma raised a meaningful eyebrow.

"Yes indeed, my lord, believe it or not. I will heal the people of Rohan of their arrogance. Tomorrow, you shall witness what enlightenment I bring to your people, even if this can, of course, only be the first step on that never-travelled path to humility for them. Haughtiness of this magnitude is not lightly healed. Some subjects of the treatment need a rather strong dose, I'm afraid. Look at _you_!" He sniffed his fingertip and made a face. "I regret to inform you that your wound is not in a good state, my liege. I shall have to make the potion stronger this time, and you will drink it, or you will first lose that arm and then die an ugly death..." A meaningful pause. "I realise there are none of your kin around this time to threaten you with, except for yourself. Tell me then, Éomer of Rohan, do you want to die, or will you drink the medicine I am giving you willingly?"

His prisoner snorted in disgust. "You call it medicine?"

Gríma let out a hurt sigh.

"If I wanted to kill you, I could already have done so already. You know that yourself. In fact, I could kill you right now, if I chose so..." Again, he waved the half-empty skewer suggestively in front of the king's face. "And what a death that would be! Éomer, the eighteenth king of the Mark, descendant of the noble house of Eorl the Young, dying on a spit used to roast pigs ... and smouldering over the fire side by side with a delicate piece of meat from with his beloved animal companion..." Gríma clapped his hands in delight. "Yes indeed, this would be a song worth listening to. Alas, we do not have any witnesses here who would spread the word, so I am afraid we will have to postpone this procedure. Although I am quite sure my servants would much enjoy it, as well."

It took Éomer a great amount of self-restraint not to rise to Wormtongue's provocation, and not to look at the spit he was retracting now to commence eating. Was that really Firefoot's flesh that snake was sinking his teeth into?

'_He will say anything to have his way with me,'_ he finally decided, fighting heroically against the surge of rage the dark counsellor's words had stirred up in him. '_He would even say it comes from the corpses of my dead men, but even he would not lower himself to that sort of beastly behaviour. He deems himself much higher than the creatures that serve him! He would not cannibalise his own kind!'_

It sounded good. Rational. Yet he had not seen the grey stallion all day, not even in the distance... and Firefoot knew to follow his rider if circumstances ever separated them. The horses of the Mark were not even trained to do that, they did it out of their own, free will, the result of a bondage so strong, it would lead them – in case they and their rider were ever captured alive – to pursue either freedom or death before they would let an enemy ride on their back. But... where was Firefoot? Strangling the life out of this newly awakened fit of desperation, Éomer looked up again, his eyebrows forming a sceptical line on his brow.

"So you don't want to kill me."

His adversary shrugged, clearly enjoying his part in this unsatisfying guessing game.

"Not yet, at least. Maybe not for quite some time, but... I am not certain yet. It all depends, I'm afraid. On the situation... on my mood..." Grima's eyes widened suggestively, "...on the development of the next days... There are still too many variables. I may have to change and adjust my plan. I am afraid I cannot promise to relieve you of your pitiful existence anytime soon...". He came to his feet and looked down on the king. "What I can do is prepare some more of the potion for Your Highness. You look as if you may have use for it." His dark form disappeared into the night, leaving his prisoner to his dark brooding...

"Sshh, Firefoot! Shh... I will not harm you, you know that. Is this not why you are here, to look for comfort in the presence of Áriel and me? Come on, great horse of the Mark, be still. Do not fear me!"

Elana knew better than to directly approach the obviously terrified and deeply torn stallion, so she stood rooted to the ground, one hand held out in offering, hoping to talk her way into the mighty grey's mind. The way he was throwing his head and rolling his eyes told her that he would indeed attack if she moved his way too rashly… but he also _wanted_ to approach her. He was not yet sure about her intentions, even though there had to be some part of his memory strong enough to shine through the veil of horror and death which had descended on him one night ago and left him wild with terror. Something had led him to her, and maybe it was not just the prospect of companionship with another member of his kind.

The young woman granted him the time to come to his own decision as she continued to let him hear her soothing voice. At the same time she took in his appearance and shivered. There was so much dried blood on him, he did not even look grey anymore! Certainly it could not all be his, and from where she stood, Elana could see nothing more than some minor scratches on his neck and broad chest, but the thought that it was perhaps Éomer's blood, or that of his men, made her tremble.

'_Maybe it is orc-blood,'_ she tried to calm herself, still mumbling in a low voice without even recognising her own words. What colour would their blood be? She had never seen a dead orc, but there was something about these ghoulish creatures that told her that their insides must be black like a starless night.

"Do you not remember me, Firefoot? Do you not remember the one who nursed you and took you into her tent in that bitterly cold winter-night when your mother died after she had given birth to you? You were black then, a little black, wet, motherless foal. I did not hurt you then, and I will certainly not hurt you now. Do you not trust me?" One step in the stallion's direction, her eyes closely observing the grey's body language. How the ears flattened against his head in another threat, how he danced to the side with flying hooves, demonstrating the skill and strength of his terrible weapons. A single kick would be strong enough to break her bones. Out here, all by herself, it could possibly mean her death.

Behind her, Áriel imitated the dance and neighed, longing to be set loose, waking her rider from her contemplation. No, she would have to wait and hope that the king's steed would sooner or later come to his senses. There was no use forcing this. Turning away from him, she went over to her own horse and began to gently stroke the mare's delicate neck. What did it mean for her plan to have Éomer's horse at hand? A swifter escape, once the king made it onto Firefoot's back. Áriel wouldn't have to carry them both, making the task of outrunning the wargs virtually possible. Still… how to get to that point? She couldn't simply ride into the enemy's camp and tell Éomer to jump onto Firefoot's back! No, there was no use trying to come up with a solution. She still needed help, and as soon as the first daylight would greet the new day, she would go and find it.

Steps approached her from behind, hesitant, but already close. Elana smiled to herself, but didn't turn. Closer still. Warm breath on her neck, a feeling that brought a warm glow to her stomach. Slowly, she turned on her heels and – at last - laid her hands on the great grey's face, her fingers gently caressing his nostrils and mouth, and then moving up all the way to his ears, unaware that she had slipped into a low, soothing hum.

"Aye, my little one, you remember me, and you will help me to get your master back, will you not?

"I am very pleased with you, my king." Grima gestured for his captain to leave after he had watched his captive take the potion. The king had taken it willingly enough this time, so the drug was already working. Blowing into his hands and rubbing them together against the cold, Wormtongue sat down on a rock opposite Éomer's position. "At last, you seem to have understood the urgency of this little game of ours... even though it still appears to be still against your taste."

This time, it did not take a huge amount of restraint on the king's part not to answer to his adversary's provocation. Éomer barely heard him, in fact, over the pounding of his heart in his ears as he fought once again to keep the vile liquid inside. He held no doubt that the Wormtongue could have made it easier for him to hold down, less revolting, but of course this was nothing but another part of his elaborate plan for vengeance. Éomer did not want to think about what the potion consisted of. Too many foul ideas came to mind, and they were probably all true, and more besides...

Somewhere further behind, a line of large, black silhouettes was moving in front of the campfire. The Uruk-hai were uncharacteristically silent tonight. Gríma's doing, likely. A Uruk's roar carried over a long distance and would inevitably attract enemies if it was heard, especially here, in the ever vigilant Marshal Erkenbrand's part of the Westfold. Just how had Wormtongue been able to acquire them? Where had they been hiding all these past months since the battle of Helm's Deep?

"I can see your thoughts on your face," his foe spoke softly into Éomer's thoughts. "You are wondering about my army. How I assembled it, since all of Saruman's Uruk-hai were believed killed at Helm's Deep, is it not so?"

The king did not answer, but again the Wormtongue's uncanny ability to know precisely what was going on in his head made him twitch. Gríma leaned forward as if he were about to share a particularly well-hidden secret with his prisoner.

"The truth is, they were. At least to my knowledge, all of the White Wizard's army was destroyed either by the Rohirrim or the tree-druids of Fangorn. The reason for my servants' presence is that they were never part of that army. They are my creation and absolutely loyal to me from the moment on they come into being. Not even my almost omnipotent master knew of their existence... just as he never knew that I had closely watched the procedure he had employed to breed his Uruk-hai to build my own breeding pits in the caves of the Misty Mountains."

Éomer's gaze returned from the distant campfire to him, and even through the deep daze his prisoner seemed to have already sunken into, Wormtongue saw the horror his words had invoked. He shrugged.

"Of course they are nowhere near as large and sophisticated as the ones at Isengard, but they were well hidden and out of your kinsmen's reach. When we return there, I expect that my servants will at least have another fifty ready to join these, and when I return to the Westfold in a month, I shall have an army of four hundred Uruk-hai and two hundred Dunlendings ready to lay your people's settlements to ashes. Marshal Erkenbrand will not be a hindrance to us. I know he is currently at Edoras to find food for his starving people, and upon his return, he shall find nothing but ruins and his people reduced to the same kind of beggars and thieves they have looked down upon disdainfully for generations. Maybe I'll capture him and let him live, too, for a while, to witness the spectacle of his people starving to death and as a guarantee that the Rohirrim will not attack us... just like you."

A dramatic pause lengthened as Gríma made up his mind to give away his big secret.

"Yes indeed, my king, listen closely, for this - at last - is my plan: I will let the people of the Mark stay alive for as long as they don't force me to dispose of them. I will ride through their villages with my servants setting fire to their winter supplies and killing their stock, and using you - their king - to demonstrate that there is nothing special about the heirs of Eorl, nothing that sets you apart from the other people of Middle Earth you look down on so haughtily. I will show them that they are nothing more than ordinary peasants who would have never been mentioned in songs or tales if not by sheer chance they had gained the friendship of Gondor. Gondor gave you this land. It is Gondor who secured your eastern borders for generations. It is Gondor who gives you the steel to make your weapons and armour with. Without the help of the blood of Númenór, you would still be wielding wooden clubs and spears instead of carrying mail and swords and lances and hard shields into battle. Saruman's army would have crushed you underfoot without the knowledge Gondor has taught you. So tell me, Éomer-king, what precisely is it that the people of the Riddermark are so proud of? What have you or your forefathers ever achieved by yourself?"

Éomer stared at him, unable to keep his thoughts focused. He knew that Gríma had just uttered some incredible insults about his kind, but pressed to repeat them, he would have failed. The words were racing in and out of his mind like a swarm of little silvery, slippery fish, dashing apart every time he stuck his hand into the water to grasp them. To his horror, he found that the leaden state had also overtaken his tongue, for he could not, for the life of him, remember how to use it. What was happening to him?

'_Bastard poisoned me…'_ was the last conscious thought before he slipped into a state between dream and waking.

Wormtongue had followed the decline of his prisoner into the sub-conscious realm with keen interest. The potion had worked fast, and Gríma wondered whether he had made it a bit too strong this time. He did not want Éomer to end up raving mad; he wanted the effect to be subtle, and his prisoner still in possession of his personality while he whispered his deadly venom into his ears. The king's mind was now wide open for everything he wanted to plant within – guilt… despair… the feeling of having been betrayed by his own kin… Whatever he would come up with, would enter the king's memory as a fact, whether he told Éomer that he had killed Théodred with his own hands to seize the throne of Rohan, or that King Théoden had banished him for raping his own sister. Ideas were springing to mind faster than he could count them. He had created a void that longed to be filled with the most rotten images and emotions his twisted, dark mind could derive, and, wonderfully, afterwards his victim would not remember either having been spoken to nor having been drugged … and tomorrow, when Éomer's strength would diminish yet again, he would ask for more…

Smiling to himself, Gríma came to his feet and sat down next to the unmoving king of Rohan. Éomer's eyes were open, but glazed with the effect of the drug. He was waiting for new memories. After a moment of collecting himself, the dark counsellor set to work…


	10. Lord of Illusions

_For Disclaimer, please see Chapter 1_

_Author's Note: Okay, this one is "R-rated" for a reason! (Violence…and rape!). I must admit that I did not see this one coming, but like probably so many of you know yourself, sometimes stories take on a life of their own. I still hope you'll bear with me through the heart of darkness._

_Lady Baelish: I guess as far as malice goes, this one takes the cake. Yes, life is pretty hard for Éomer these days… and it's getting more downhill by the chapter. I actually feel bad for him myself. I'm an evil person… goes into corner and hangs head _

Rohan Nitpick: I hope you'll still be enjoying this after this chapter! I had not actually planned for it to become so dark, but well… what can you do? shrugs

_Éokat: Yet another cliff-hanger for you. I hope your fingers still have some strength left in them, LOL!_

_Kezya: Yup, Gríma's probably going to receive a nomination for "Most evil Person of the Riddermark" shortly. He's honestly earned it. Can't wait until your exams are over – I need my "Betrayal of Trust"-fix!_

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**Chapter 9: Lord of Illusions**

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It was cold. And wet. The shabby old fur coat she wore had kept her reasonably dry and warm, but her limbs were nevertheless stiff from the night on the hard, half-frozen ground with nothing more to keep her comfortable than a thin woollen blanket. It had been neither the constant drizzle nor the silent throbbing of her aching body that had woken Elana. Rather, the sudden sensation of a great animal stepping up to her and blowing warm, slightly smelly breath into her face had finally roused her.

Smiling, she opened her eyes and found her mare looking at her curiously as if asking how she could still be sleeping when they had been awake for so long already. Heavier steps further away told her that the stallion was also still around. Very well. Time to get started. Time to quickly eat the leftovers from her flat cake and get on the road again.

"Áriel…" Pushing herself into a sitting position with one hand rubbing her eyes, the young woman squinted at the once again cloudy sky… and froze. The position of the sun… it could not be that late, could it? "Oh no…!"

Elana jumped to her feet, inwardly pleading that this was still a dream, but the wet drizzle in her face felt real enough, so real that the hard fact could no longer be ignored: the morning was long gone, and half the day had already passed – while she slept. When she had laid down for a moment during the endless night, close to morning, with the moon already starting to set in the east, she had not meant to sleep at all, only to give her exhausted body a chance to renew its strength for what lay ahead of her. She had meant to wait for dawn to ride hard and get ahead of the king's captors, to alert the village they were headed for, but somehow in the comfortless, desolate blackness closing in on her, the second night she had not slept, exhaustion had apparently overwhelmed her, and now she had lost half a day! As her searching gaze glided over plain in front of her, she noticed with a sharp pang of guilt that the army she had been following had already left, their fires obviously having been put out so long ago, they were not even smoking anymore. This was a catastrophe! Some help she was!

"Áriel, come here!"

Hastily, Elana gathered her few belongings from the ground and saddled her horse, in her head repeating an endless litany meant for the Valar to have mercy on her for her failure.

Éomer's unfocused gaze was directed at the horizon, following the movement of the better part of the Uruk-hai Wormtongue had sent ahead to clear their path. A host of one hundred of the nightmare creatures was now rolling towards the unsuspecting village of Iséndras like a flash flood on rocky surface after hard rain: violent, deadly and unstoppable, set to destroy everything in its path. The king shuddered and prayed that maybe, by sheer chance, Marshal Elfhelm and his éored would be there to prevent the worst, even if the situation did not leave much space for hope.

Grimly he reminded himself how unlikely it was to meet his able kinsman and trusted friend of many years as he watched the dark, menacing silhouettes running half a league ahead of them and putting more distance between themselves and the rest of Gríma's army by the minute. '_Elfhelm must be on his way back to Edoras. Winter is approaching fast, and his errand can not have kept him at_ _Isengard and Helm's Deep for long. He will not risk being surprised by the first storms of winter on the plains.'_

Éomer let his gaze sweep the broad valley in the southern fringes of the Ered Nimrais they travelled through, desperately looking for a sign, but with an already low spirit. The plan Wormtongue had finally chosen to reveal to him the night before was too cruel to think through all the way to the end. The people of the Mark were _already_ paying a hefty price after the long war against both the White Wizard and Mordor, with many villages depending on outside help to sustain them with food. More hardships of the like Gríma planned to lay on them would inevitably lead to major famine – and death. There were hardly enough men left in the Riddermark these days to cultivate the vast fields, what would happen to their settlements if yet more people died of hunger was unthinkable. In his youth, while his parents were still alive, Éomer had once experienced what extreme hunger could do a people, how it reduced first the strength and then the spirit, turning honest and giving men into covetous and distrustful ones, and sometimes, even forcing them to become thieves and steal the things they needed to live from their fellow neighbours and kinsmen until finally, when all was lost and nothing left to find or steal, all that was left to do was to lay down and die.

Just shortly after he had turned nine, an entire summer without rain had left the fields dry and their crops dead in all of the Eastmark around Aldburg, their home. The harvest that year had been a major catastrophe, and the people had already known at the beginning of fall that not all of them would live to see the next spring. It had been a frightening experience, one he did not want to see repeated. One he would do all in his might to avert if it still lay within his power.

The main body of Gríma's advance army had already vanished from sight, and Éomer shifted his view again to the greatly reduced group of Uruk-hai that had been left behind to guard him and his adversary on their slower approach to Iséndras. There were only around thirty orcs left. Not an unstoppable force, but with the chains around his neck and wrists, his escape would still have to be the result of outside help. Thirty – plus one patrol warg – were still too many for him to handle, even if Gríma's potion had once again worked wonders on him, considering how feeble he had felt just the night before. If any opportunity presented itself to him today, he would be ready to seize it.

Settling into a slightly more comfortable position on the bare horseback, Éomer finally fell prey to the monotony of their approach again, allowing himself to slip into a daze to retain his strength for a time when he would need it. They had four leagues to travel yet...

"Éomer? Tell me that this is not true! Tell me this is a misunderstanding! Artlas told me that-"

"Do you have her?"

"Yes, but–"

"Then bring her in, and mind your own business, Elfhelm!"

The older, broadly built warrior narrowed his eyes in disbelief – and he refused to leave, even as he motioned his men to bring forth the young, frightened-looking woman Éomer had ordered him to summon to his tent. What was that mud-blooded Rohir thinking to question him openly in front of his men? Éomer knew he had probably had too much ale and wine after that raging Midsummer-celebration, but that was no excuse for his second-in-command to reject his orders! So, maybe he was drunk, but he was still clear enough to know what he was doing, and as Third Marshal of the Riddermark, it was his well-deserved, damned right to exercise! Valar, he was risking his neck every time they went on patrol to rid the Mark of the marauding orcs that kept just coming at them from all directions, so these weak, whiny peasants could bloody well show a bit more of their gratitude.

"You cannot be serious about this, Éomer! You are not yourself!"

"And you, my friend, are forgetting your place!" A dangerous glint lay in Éomer's eyes as he slowly shifted his attention from his rebellious second-in-command to the girl his men lead into his large tent now. She had caught his eye when she had brought him the first cup of wine. A tight, buckskin tunic was artfully tied with leather straps over her womanly frame, a promise of the body underneath. She could not be older than twenty summers, with a delicately cut face, high cheekbones and deep blue eyes. She had the long, golden hair that was standard for the most women of the Mark, and curls that softened her innocent young face to an almost elven likeness. The hard work necessary to sustain life out here in the Westfold had given her a lean, strong body, and – for a Rohan woman – she was quite tall. Perfect, he had decided right there and then.

"My lord? You were asking for me?" Her voice trembled as she stood before him now, slender arms hugging her wiry frame. Behind her, Elfhelm's frown indicated very clearly that he did not approve of his younger superior's actions. Again Éomer locked eyes with his comrade-in-arms of many years in a silent battle. '_I am the_ _king's nephew,'_ his granite-hard gaze said. '_You object to my will, and you will be punished. Do you understand me?_ The older man, his mentor for many years, narrowed his eyes, but remained silent. He was a seasoned, experienced warrior and knew what the punishment for mutiny against his superior officer would be.

"Marshal Elfhelm, take your men and leave!" Éomer's voice was firm and determined and there was a hard glint in his dark eyes as he spoke, a threat that only existed between the lines, yet a very potent one, not only meant for Elfhelm, in fact, as the faces of the two men further back told him that they did not like what he was about to do, either. Would he have to court-marshal them all for mutiny, or would they come to their senses?

Finally, after another long moment of silent wrestling of their wills, his old friend gave him the curt nod he had been waiting for, but the rigidity with which he finally turned on his heels to leave his superior's tent was an indication that he was still very much in opposition to what he knew would happen once he had left. Éomer hardly cared as he motioned the girl to step closer. "What is your name, woman?"

"Théandran, my lord." She kept her head lowered as she obeyed hesitantly, avoiding his gaze at all costs, and bent her trembling knees in a formal, stiff curtsey. "But-"

"Look at me!" Large pools of blue met his gaze – and widened slowly as she saw the clear intent on his face. "You are beautiful." he said, his hand roaming over her face, her quivering lips, and slowly tracing her cheekbone back to her ear. Gently his fingertips moved into her hair, playing with the golden curls for a moment before they glided further down on her neck. She trembled under his touch, uncomfortable in his intimidating presence.

"Please, my lord... I'm awaited at home. I cannot-"Her voice sounded husky and choked as if it barely fit through her throat. Narrowing his eyes, Éomer raised her chin with his free hand while the other one still rested on the back of the young woman's neck.

"Tell me, Théandran... are you afraid of me?"

"I –" She interrupted herself as the hand on her neck slid down to her shoulder blades and urged her forward. "My lord?" Breathless now, her eyes widened. Desire... or fear? "No, my lord, but my family-"

"-is safe, and they know you are safe here, too." Éomer was close now, his body next to hers, smelling her sweet scent, which did unbelievable things to him. His voice dropped to a deep, confidential whisper. The girl tried to step back, but he wouldn't allow it. "There is no place in the entire kingdom, not even Helm's Deep, where you would be safer right now than here with me... or do you think you would have harm done to you in the presence of the Third Marshal of the Riddermark?" He ran his other hand from her chin down her neck, briefly stopping in the pit of her throat before his fingertips traced the delicate arch of her collar-bone. The right one was still holding her tight, even though her reluctance was painfully obvious.

"No, my lord..." She shuddered and closed her eyes, breathing heavily. "Please... don't!"

"Ssh... don't speak..." he said, impatient, the building pressure in his lower body making it almost impossible for him to focus on opening the leather straps that held her tunic together. "I did not send for you because I wanted to talk." There now. It was out. His actions had spoken clearly enough before, but now he had also said it out loud, and Théandran responded. Again she fought to withdraw from him, panicking now, but again he held her back and instead crushed her to his chest with barely restrained force, annoyed by her continued resistance.

"Don't!"

His fingers had opened the first straps and uncovered her shoulders as the tunic gave way. Her hands intervened and clasped his in a desperate attempt to stop him. "Please – this is not your right! You cannot do this!"

"_You think it is not my right_?" He shot her a furious look and forced her hands away. "Every day we ride out and risk our lives for you people. In every battle that we go through our blood is spilled, and now you want to tell me that it's not my right to take what I want in return? Where have you lived so far, that you don't know the way things work, woman?" With a fierce demonstration of his superior strength, Éomer forced her arms down. She was no match for him as he pressed his mouth hard onto hers.

For a moment, there was a hint of the sweet, ripe taste of wine, the notion of the exquisite softness of her lips, before it disappeared under his forceful assault to form a hard barrier. Her head jerked back, but he followed it almost faster than she could move away, not even hearing her terrified whimpering over the thunderous boom of his own pulse and the pressure building in his body, longing for release, tongue searching to penetrate the wall in front of it, his grip on her so fierce her arms would turn purple the day after. Éomer hardly noticed the impact as they stumbled against the door-post, interlocked in an awkward dance, the slight curvature of the body underneath his driving him mad.

Unexpectedly, her mouth opened – and when he plunged in she bit down hard on his tongue and lower lip, drawing blood. The sudden pain cut through his lust like a knife, and for a moment, surprise slackened his hold enough for her to free one arm. How dare she – she hit him squarely in the face and flung herself backwards, out of his grasp, but stumbled and fell, her tunic ripping in his still iron grasp, revealing her all the way to her waist. Huge blue, wet eyes stared up terrified as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, for the eternity of five heartbeats looking at the red stain there before he forcefully threw down the piece of leather he had ripped off and moved after her, now seriously enraged. Who did that wench think she was to deny him?

The girl screamed and frantically moved backwards on all fours now, but he was even faster as his fingers closed around her ankle and yanked her back, under him. She kicked, first at his face, then, below him, aiming for his groin, finding his inner thigh and forcing another painful grunt. Backhanding her came by sheer reflex and without restraint. His knuckles connected with her mouth full force. For a moment, she was stunned. As was he. He had never hit a woman before. Not like this. _Not at all_!

A small bubble of inactivity rose where they just stared at each other, he kneeling over her, she frozen in a backwards motion. Slowly, with a dreamlike quality, her hand touched her mouth - and came away bloodied. His strike had split her lip. Large blue eyes met his in utter confusion – and stark, naked shock.

For a heartbeat, words of regret shot through his head – '_I did not mean to…'._ Then anger replaced it. At himself. Then at _her_, for making this so difficult!

"You see what you have done now?" he yelled into her face, beside himself. Her eyes were squeezed shut, for she could no longer bear to look at him, the image of the protector she had carried around in her heart for years turned into that of her worst enemy; her lower, bloodied lip quivering in voiceless terror. "This is your own fault!"

Her presence, the maddening softness of her body under him made it impossible to pull back. He _had_ to have her! "Now quit fighting. I do not want to harm you further." He opened his belt. "What happens now is up to you..." The body underneath him shuddered, but her fighting spirit had finally been broken, and the suppressed, low sobs she uttered as he tore away the remainders of her clothing were the only sign she was still conscious as Éomer claimed his reward...

"Forgive me for asking, my lord, but you appear to be rather introverted today. Is something ailing you, something I can help you with? Are you not feeling well? Is it your wound?" Gríma's silky voice oozed its way through the vivid memory that played in Éomer's head and woke him from the half-conscious daze he had slipped into. For the first time, he was thankful for the distraction. The incident had only happened last year, in the very village they were headed for. It hung like a black cloud over the meadow of his conscience, casting a large, deep shadow. The people would not have forgotten him, much less forgiven. Sure, he had been drunk, but forcing himself on that innocent young woman – _and hitting her, too!_ - one of the people he had vowed to protect with his life… The very thought sickened him. What had come over him that night?

"My lord?"

Éomer remained silent, eyes staring unfocused into the distance without seeing the surrounding landscape. Instead he saw his friend's face. Elfhelm's expression had left no question open that he had been disgusted by what his marshal had done to that girl. In fact, now that he remembered more clearly, all the men of his éored had looked at him as if he were a particularly lowly kind of mutant orc when they had left the village the morning after. Valar, how could he have forgotten? And now he would be confronted with the consequences of his doings again, and he harboured no doubt that – once the villagers had recognised Gríma Wormtongue's captive – they would rather cheer the dark counsellor than try to free their morally more than questionable king. Not that he could blame them.

"Oh, but of course... now I understand," Gríma straightened in the saddle, recognition lighting up his pale features. "It is the incident with the farmer's daughter that occupies your mind, isn't it?"

Why couldn't this snake keep his poisonous trap shut this one time instead of constantly having to pry his fingers into his wounds? And how did he know? How much did he know? Had Elfhelm told him? But Elfhelm hated Gríma almost as passionately as he did, so how -? As much as he fought to keep his stoic expression intact, Éomer could not avoid casting a secretly ashamed glance at his adversary.

"I should have known. Your mind is like a deep black pit that attracts all fell news it can possibly get its greedy fingers on. Nothing delights you more than hearing about other people's misery… except causing it!"

Gríma shrugged and did not bother to display false sympathy.

"But my lord_, the entire Riddermark _heard about it! Your own men spread the word like wildfire! According to Marshal Elfhelm, who I think used to be a friend of yours until this dreadful event, you hurt that woman badly enough for her to be barren now. The healer they brought her to after you were through with her was certain of that. The poor thing will never have children... and presumably, no husband either, for who would want to have a wife who is unable to fill her home with the laugher of their own children?" A meaningful pause. Wormtongue could tell by the look of the king's face that his latest blow had hurt him to the core. Along with the last defences of his mind, Éomund's son's self-control appeared to have vanished as well. The grim, stoic mask behind which he had hidden his thoughts just one day earlier had dissolved to an open display of shame and guilt. "It was a monstrous thing to do, even for someone like you, whose reputation has preceded him for years."

The dark counsellor let the sentence trail off, knowing full well that his captive would not be able to ignore the loose end. Gríma's plan had taken on a life of its own now with the drug working to its maximum degree. Whatever he implied, whatever he hinted at, Éomer's abducted mind would take and provide images for from the very wells of his own memory. Lies would turn into fact, and would work even better due to one of the king's own character traits: his immense sense of pride made it virtually impossible for him to ignore any implications his foe dropped, in the process being forced to bury his conscience with an ever-growing amount of guilt, which Gríma was happy to feed into. Spinning intrigues and artfully crafted nets of lies had always been something the son of Gálmód had excelled at – and a well of never-ending delight for him if it worked as well as here.

"What do you mean, _even for me_?" Éomer's hesitant question was rewarded with an incredulous look.

"Please, my lord… don't tell me you don't know about your own reputation! I would deem it far too prominent for you to have missed it, since you Rohirric soldiers always pride yourself of your perception and ability to read people! Please, don't say that you do not know your people's opinion concerning you!" Gríma rolled his eyes and let out a short laugh that indicated how ridiculous he deemed the king's question.

"What reputation?" Éomer's puzzlement grew to the point where he wasn't even paying attention to his surroundings anymore. His foe's hinted implications had brought a hot, pulsing throb to his innards, and he was sure his face looked flushed with shame. What kind of a nightmare was this? Had he been blind all the time?

Wormtongue inhaled deeply and then sadly shook his head, as he began to recapitulate, slowly and pointedly, as if he were speaking to a stubborn child.

"Where shall I begin? Your reputation of a man who thrives on bloodlust? A man who actually enjoys the act of killing and the carnage of war and doesn't take it as a necessary measure to protect his people? Who would prefer to kill his enemies slowly for his greater pleasure, if it weren't for the fact that there are too many of them to do so? A man who – protected and preferred by his noble descent and relationship with the king - had risen through the ranks far too fast for the taste of most of the soldiers he rode with, and who achieved a position of great power at an age where he was hardly mentally mature enough to use that power wisely? The reputation of a man who expects to be rewarded for his deeds by the people he serves - and who will ruthlessly take whatever he wants, with little or no concern to whom it belongs or whether it is given willingly? - _That_, my lord, is what your people, who you think love and value you, think of the late King Théoden's nephew." Gríma paused, his expression hard and pitiless. "Do you want me to continue, noble king of Rohan, or will that suffice for now?" He stared into Éomer's widened eyes with all sincerity he could muster, even though his inner satisfaction was almost too intense to bear. The king appeared to be unable to answer, and when he finally did find his voice again, it sounded weak and lacked conviction as well as justified anger, which told Gríma all he needed to know.

"This is but your own mind talking. I do not believe that my people-."

"You do not want to believe me, aye, I can see that, my king, and I do not blame you, for who would like to hear such things about oneself? Yet I can see in your face that you know I _am_ speaking the truth. Maybe it is a good sign that finally you seem to feel something equivalent to shame. Maybe, if I allowed you to live longer, you would change for the better, but…" He took a deep breath. "No. I am sorry. It is too late for that… and alas, it also comes too late for your uncle." A hurtful twitch in the king's face. Another strike right through his defences.

Gríma continued. "Maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but… let it suffice to say that your scandalous behaviour very much poisoned the well of King Théoden's sanity in those unfortunate days of his illness. He had hoped for you to be a help for him in those hard days, a crutch for him to lean on, but instead you took away what balance he had!" He shook his head. "A sad story, really. And all the time, you blamed _me _for your uncle's misery… You should have spoken with your sister more often. She knew what the real reason for Théoden's grief was. Your banishment had nothing to do with me – it was a direct result from your behaviour. After that incident with the woman, you were no longer tolerable as a representative of Rohan nobility. This course of action had been my counsel to your uncle for a long time, but alas, Théoden's illness had made him blind to what went on in his kingdom, and unfortunately, he needed your skills as warrior, as the situation was too precarious for Rohan. That he _did _eventually banish you came as a surprise even to me. He must have had one of his clearer days when he signed that warrant. Alas, you had been gone for a too short time for the people of Rohan to forget you after the king's son fell and Théoden himself was slain on the Pelennor Fields of Gondor, and your own great deeds on the battlefield spoke louder to the Rohirrim than their doubts. When you returned from Gondor, they welcomed you as their king… but their memory is returning, my lord, and the voices among them that call for having you replaced by someone worthy are getting louder… and more plentiful."

Wormtongue opened his mouth to continue, but his attention was suddenly diverted by the sight of three dark columns of smoke slowly rising from behind the hills they were headed for, too far away yet to carry the stench of the fire to them. The procession came to a halt, and the remaining Uruk-hai launched into appreciate grunting as they pointed towards the site of their brothers' doings. Éomer's eyes were also fixed on the first messenger of destruction, but his numbed and stunned mind did not make the immediate connection. His head was reeling from Wormtongue's revelations, and the still prominent images of the bleeding, shivering woman in front of his inner eyes was too distracting for him to be able to deal with yet another catastrophe. A sickening wave of nausea turned his stomach, and he had to bow his head and shut his eyes to fight it, not noticing as the dark counsellor's attention shifted back to him.

"Get him off the horse!"

Suddenly, it took the king a considerable amount of strength just to raise his head, as if all of his strength had suddenly been sucked out of him by some unseen force. Something was seriously wrong with him. Everything - foreground, background, Wormtongue's face and those of the Uruks further back - everything looked strangely flat, distant and drained of most of its colour. Without warning, an unexpected stroke of heat raced through his veins and bathed him in sweat.

"But we are not there yet," one of the Dunlendings who had one end of the chain secured to his saddle grunted. Wormtongue shifted his view from the prisoner to his guard, his voice still sounding patient as he explained the strange order to his follower.

"No, but the king wishes to take a walk." His gaze fell back to Éomer, who was struggling too much with his suddenly deteriorating condition to listen. "He is a very active man, our king, a person of great stamina and endurance. Sitting on horseback all day long without an opportunity to stretch his legs is not something a true descendant of the house of Eorl rejoices in, is it, my lord?"

The words were clear, and still their meaning escaped Éomer. Valar, what was happening with him? This was a feeling as if he were severely drunk, only without the nice warming glow in his stomach. He was unable to think, unable to talk, unable to do anything but stare in utter confusion at the dark figure in front of him.

Orders were bellowed, and then a sudden, sharp tug at the chain around his neck. Unceremoniously, the king slid off his horse's back, and yet his instincts still helped him land on his feet, but his legs were too weak to carry him. He sank to his knees in the middle of a large puddle of mud. Laughter surged up all around him, and yet it seemed very distant.

"You see," he heard Gríma's voice from above, speaking to his army, "the Rohirrim proudly call themselves 'Horse-Lords'. Yet by the sight of this, wouldn't you rather agree they should call themselves 'Pig-Lords', for they seem to share the same fondness of dirt and mud as their naked, squealing, undignified farm animals!" More laughter. Éomer felt the concussion of heavy steps next to him, water and mud splashing under the weight of a horse, the smell of wet fur. "Give me that!" Somewhere above Éomer's head, one end of the chain changed its possessor. Another tug and he fell forward, face down into the puddle, to the amusement of his captors. His right side exploded in agony, and deep within his mind, sub-consciously, Éomer was certain he would never ever be able to use his sword-arm again.

"Up, up, ruler of the Pig-Lords!" Wormtongue's mocking voice teased him. "Your vassals are waiting for their king! And what a fine sight you will be to their commoners' eyes!" He turned his horse around and sent it into a fast trot, dragging his captive behind for a few yards before he stopped again and looked over his shoulder. "You'd better get up, my liege. It would not pose a problem to me to drag you all the way to the village, but what should your kinsmen say? You do not want to look them in the eye the way you look now,do you?" Squeezing his eyelids shut for a moment, the dark counsellor looked up into the rain. "We still have about one league until we are there. If you stay on your feet, the rain will clean you at least a bit and make you more presentable. More... kingly." A nasty smirk. "It is your decision, son of Éomund."


	11. Victims of War

**Chapter 11: Victims of War**

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The stench of the fire lay over the devastated village of Iséndras like a death-blanket as they entered through the east gate, up to their ankles in mud. The sky was dark, even though the sun had hardly passed its highest position, and a black, ashen rain fell down and covered men and creatures alike as they walked the broad path into the settlement towards a raging inferno. The largest building of Iséndras – the old barn – had become a victim of the fire, along with everything it had once housed. The flames roared and licked angrily into the sky, and the heat they generated was too intense for any of the villagers to get near and try anything as mundane as an attempt to extinguish the fire.

The sight was painful enough as it was, but the near and distant sounds of weeping and sobbing, and the desperate cries of the terrorised locals made it even worse and turned Éomer's gut into a tight knot as he stumbled through the mud. The sight of the first pens did nothing to lessen his anguish as he spotted the unmoving shapes of the settlement's cattle and sheep at the far back. Thick, black arrows and crossbow bolts stuck out from the animals necks and heads, and some had even been laid open and hewn to pieces by the Uruk-hai's crude blades, their blood still oozing lazily into the ground. The stench of the massacre invaded his senses even through his own deteriorated state. Gríma's army had been thorough. As far as Éomer could see, not a single animal had survived.

He dreaded to look further, but could not help it. There was some morbid fascination to all scenes of slaughter that made it impossible to avert ones eyes. Maybe it was that his racing mind was still searching for a way to dismiss the scenes as false, nothing but a fever-induced nightmare; maybe it was that he was still trying to rationalise the extent of death he was witnessing, but whatever it was, he failed. The next pen. Pigs. Everything inside it dead, too. Next to it, the sound of weeping rose into the air. A woman, dressed in stained, wet woollen rags, her face dirty, was cradling her unconscious husband in her arms, who was bleeding from a head-wound. Two small children tugged at their father's clothes in a desperate attempt to force a reaction, their wet, flaxen hair plastered to their tear-streaked, freckled faces. They froze as they spotted the new arrivals, and terror once again filled their innocent faces as they searched for an explanation for what had happened to them – and whether it was over or not.

The king's stomach twitched in memory of his own childhood trauma. This very sight had been what had first stirred the wish in him to become a warrior. This look of utter despair and horror on peoples faces when they came to his father or – later – to Edoras to ask for help. The feeling of helpless fury while he had listened in on their descriptions of what had been done to their villages… and last, but not least, the destiny of his own parents. The sight of his father as they brought him home after that fatal ambush, his body slashed and broken. Éomer had been barely eleven years old at that time. Eighteen years had passed since then, but he had never forgotten that particular day. All that was needed for a perfectly accurate memory was closing his eyes, and he was there again, on that accursed summer-afternoon...

It had been a hot day, and after the traditional sparring session with his friends he had been by the pond fishing and looking after his sister, when that first anguished cry had pierced the moisture-laden air. For a moment, an icy chill as if someone had walked over his grave had mesmerised him and caused the tiny blond hairs on his arms and the back of his neck to rise. Death. If he knew anything of it, than that this was the sound of it. Someone had just died. His head snapped around in search for its source, and that had been when he had seen the procession of horses and men entering Aldburg from the south gate. The trout that had risen to his bait and was now fighting for its life on the other end of the rod he held had been completely forgotten as he let it fall where he stood. Out of the corners of his eyes, he had seen Éowyn frozen to the spot where she had been playing with her little wooden horses, looking in the same direction with an all-too-knowing expression on her face.

"Éomer?" Her eyes had been wide, and until the present day, Éomer still asked himself whether his little sister had recognised their mother's voice before he had, although sub-consciously, he probably already had, too.

"Come!" He had seized her little hand, but had been too fast for her as he made for the marketplace from where the sound had risen as fast as his legs carried him. Somewhere along the way, she had slipped from his grip without him even taking notice. Out of breath and his heart drumming a relentless beat in his chest, he had seen the men of his father's éored – '_But there are so few of them! Where are_ _the others?'_ – coming to a halt next to the ancient tree, some of them still mounted, while others were gathered in a tight circle on the ground, their heads bowed, looking down on something... _or somebody_. Some of them were bleeding, and there were quite a few horses with them without riders!

Éomer had not been able to spot his father's distinctive helmet with the flowing white horsetail on the back among them, and somehow, even though he had still been too far away to make out any distinctive facial features, he had known right then that it had to be his father in their midst. The premonition had hit him in the guts like a goblin's club and forced him to slow down to a shaky walk. And then he had heard the slowly rising, wailing sound again and recognised the voice, and he knew his life would change forever.

Catapulted into a trance by this sudden knowledge, he had come to a halt just outside the circle, still unnoticed by the adults around him, and his searching glance through the moving bodies had locked on a sight his young mind was not ready to digest: Théodwyn, his mother, kneeling in the dirt wearing one of her best gowns, her face hidden from Éomer's sight as it was pressed against the one of the person lying unmoving on the ground, with her long, fair hair flowing down like a golden river, arms locked around the body in a fierce embrace, as if she wanted to hinder life from leaving the man in her arms with all of her willpower and strength. He knew those clothes! They were his father's! The sight was unsettling enough, but then Éomer had found his gaze transfixed by two thick, feathered shafts that stuck out in the air over her head, while their other ends were buried in the man's – _his father's!_ - chest. There was very little blood, but it looked... all wrong.

"Éomer?" His sister's breathless, frightened voice as she came up behind him, her little hand tugging at his tunic. A moment of utter silence followed– and then her scream. "Papa!" Unlike him, she was able to move and flung herself at their dead father as Éomer still stood there, frozen to the spot and unable to take his eyes off the horrible sight.

The people's faces – except for his mother's – had turned then to look at him as he shoved his way through the crowd to finally get the first, full view of the mutilated body of his dead father. Thankfully, shock claimed him right there and prevented him from falling apart where he stood. Instead, it had been like walking through a dream, one of his rare nightmares after having once again heard too many vivid descriptions of his father's errands. Somehow, he had made it to the fallen man's side, and still his mother had not acknowledged his presence with any sign, not even as he sank to his knees on the other side of the body. Unable to take his eyes off the thick black lengths of wood, and the pale, lifeless face of his father behind them, partially covered by his mother's and sister's hair. A thin red river had trickled over his cheeks and chin and there was a deep gash from his nose to his left ear, too, but the blood had already congealed and the flow had ended, because there was no more heartbeat in the cold body to drive it out of his wounds.

All the redness on the grey skin was decidedly unreal. There were no natural colours this bright and aggressive. This _had_ to be a dream! And then he had seen more of the red glistening on his father's stomach, where it had saturated the fabric of his tunic and stained the mail he wore, and the boy's mind detached itself from the body it lived in.

'_Death,'_ had been the only thought Éomer had been capable of before a concerned young face – '_Elfhelm. It was Elfhelm.'_ – had obstructed his vision and asked him something Éomer did not react to. '_So this is what death looks like… this is what it feels like._

But in truth, he had felt nothing - except numb. And hollow. He had not even wept when they had brought him and his sister home to have their nursemaid look for them while they tended to Théodwyn. All of the afternoon and well into the night, when exhaustion had finally claimed him, he had been sitting in his chamber holding his weeping sister. Not one tear had left his eyes while he had listened for hours to the sounds of her despair, and in hindsight, he had always asked himself how it could have been.

Maybe it had been because the sight of the cold, pale body in front of him had nothing in common with the vibrant, commanding person his father had been in life: a broadly built, strong and intimidating, yet passionate and giving man, greatly beloved by the men he rode with, by the people he served… and by his family. And now, he was dead, like so many before him. Ambushed by creatures Éomer had never thought would be able to harm the Marshal of the Eastfold. To the eleven-year-old boy he had been, his father had seemed invincible... but he had not been, nobody was, and this one summer day - the day that his childhood had ended - he had been taught that bitter lesson once and for all. Hope was dangerous. Nobody was safe – ever! Somehow, it just seemed to belong to life in the Riddermark: There would never be a time for its people when war and tragedy would not lurk to jump at them at them around the next corner. Each second one let down his guard could be one's last. He had kept that lesson in his mind for all these years… until he had abandoned it in time to give Gríma this one chance of taking revenge.

The burial, in a way, had been even worse then the initial shock at the marketplace. The three days between the killing and the ceremony had been long enough for Éomer to make himself come out of his shocked daze and really feel the sharp spike of pain - and to come to an understanding of what the loss of his father actually meant. Despite of the obvious things that would cease to exist and which came with Éomund's position as lord of the Eastfold – knowledge of all the things that went on in the Mark, the respect and love from the men of his éored and the people under his protection, all of which had been nice, but not things Éomer was dependent on… his father's death meant that nobody would be there to take care of their family in times of need. His mother was currently certainly not in any position to do so. There would be no more valuable advice for life and adolescence, on how to grow up in order to be able to walk in the footsteps of a great man … no more gripping bedtime stories of the Mark's heroes told in his father's deep, soothing voice; no embraces, no hair-ruffling, no lectures, no more fighting or hunting and riding lessons which had always been Éomer's favourite pastimes with his father because those had been the rare moments when he had Éomund's undivided attention and affection. All this had taken its time to settle in the young boy's mind, and now that it had, the knowledge was devastating.

What had made the burial an even more excruciating experience were the ancient Rohirric rituals. As a male member of one of the noblest families of the Mark, he had not been allowed to grieve openly like his mother and sister. Eleven years of age was considered old enough to show the regal composure of the lords and kings of his country, and while they had carried his father's kingly-clad, but lifeless body to the place where all lords of the Eastfold were buried, he had stood next to his silently weeping sister and grief-stricken mother at his uncle's and his cousin's side, stone-faced as expected of him, but inwardly crying out in despair and rage over this injustice. Only Théodred's hand on his shoulder, giving him a compassionate squeeze as the procession passed them by, had offered some token of relief on that day, but it had hardly been more than a drop of comfort in an ocean of woe. When they finally handed him his father's helmet with the broken nose-guard in the form of a golden horse, he had made a silent vow to himself: to become a soldier of the Mark as soon as they would let him, and to use his skills to hunt down every orc he'd ever meet, to kill every single one he'd ever come across, and to repay them in blood for the tragedy they had brought upon his family.

That same night, Théodred had sneaked into their room when everybody had been sleeping, except for Éomer, who had motionlessly lain in his bed and crying silent, bitter tears of grief, loss and rage with no one present to comfort him. When his cousin had sat down next to him, the Éomer had at first stubbornly pretended to be asleep, for he had been uncertain about what the king's son expected of him. But Théodred, albeit a young man himself, had not been one to be easily fooled, and upon the low, but persistent call of his name, Éomer had finally turned his face to him, ashamed of his tears and expecting an admonishment for the lack of his restraint. What happened then came as a surprise, as his cousin had opened his arms and embraced him.

_"Let it out, little one,"_ Théodred had whispered into Éomer's ears, careful not to wake Éowyn, who had been sleeping nearby. _"You were very brave today, but I know just like you what it feels like having to hold back when all you want to do is cry out in rage and despair. Come, let it out."_ And that one time, in the silent hours of the night after his father's burial, Éomer had allowed himself to succumb to his grief like never again afterwards.

From that day on, his persona had changed from the outgoing and lively boy he had been to one who always made sure to keep his distance and observe. Someone who never let a person get so close to him that their death would hurt him. He kept his composure, he made it a point to keep his feelings guarded – expect for fury and passion against their enemies, for those were considered noble character-traits in the Rohirric culture which could be openly displayed - and he became the one person to steady his sister in her grief, even if he was unable to reach their mother.

He had hardened, determined to never again show any weaknesses to his foes or his friends. The boy had become a man, hell-bent on honouring the memory of his father and protecting his kin… what was left of it. - W_here had it all gone wrong?_


	12. Iséndras

**Chapter 12: Iséndras**

* * *

The king had not finished that thought when the woman looked up, and the wailing sound just like the sobbing were choked in her throat as her eyes found him. Accusation lit up her bright blue gaze and pierced Éomer's heart.

'_She knows who I am. She knows what I did.' _

He had to look away, and his face flushed with a shame so deep, it scorched his innards. Oh yes, the people had anything but forgotten him, and how could they, after his monstrous deed? Was the woman still around? Would he have to look in her face? The king cringed at the prospect. Of course she would still be here. And when she saw him, she would point her finger at him and shout out his sins for all to hear. Maybe she would walk up to him and hit him! Maybe - maybe he ought to be thankful for Gríma's massive army; maybe – without their presence - his kinsmen would stone him! But then again – maybe death was the only way still open to him to restore at least some of his dignity. Maybe, if he asked for forgiveness and then killed himself… maybe his place in Rohan's history would mercifully be left out in the songs of future generations. Maybe they'd name someone else eighteenth king of the Mark because the one they had for a few, brief months would put the entire kingdom to shame if his deeds and reputation became known.

He was glad to leave the woman behind as Wormtongue urged his horse into motion again and the chain around his neck pulled Éomer forward. The burning sensation of her gaze on his back followed him all the way to the next corner.

Yet his anguish only grew as they slowly advanced, for there were more people moving all around them the more they proceeded towards the centre of Iséndras. More voices and the notion of activity – children running, women and men shouting and fleeing from them towards the marketplace – from where the terrifying roar of the flames and a wave of heat wafted. The menacing shadow of Wormtongue's advance-army was clearly outlined by the blazing fire in the background as a dark silhouette made it's way down towards them. The warg-rider. His ferocious mount snapped at a woman who dared to cross its path on her frenzied flight into her hut and barely missed her. The sound of ripping fabric could be heard, accompanied by a short, terrified shriek, and then the woman had reached the sanctuary of her home and slammed the wooden door shut behind her.

"They're waiting for you, master," the orc snarled and spit in disgust. "We killed only those who wouldn't stop opposing us." His words sent a shudder down Éomer's spine.

"Very well, Âshgnak. I am pleased with you. Expect a reward once we are done with the Riddermark."

"You are too friendly, master." The creature turned its mount around and led the way to the waiting crowd, closely followed by Wormtongue and the stumbling king.

They were getting close to the site of the most destruction, close enough to feel the heat and smell the biting smoke. By the time the entire army had reached the marketplace, the barn had become a blazing inferno of hellfire and the flames licked hungrily at the surrounding houses, with the first thatched roofs already catching despite the villagers' frantic efforts to keep the fire from spreading. Those who were not involved in the activity stood unmoving in the middle of the great open place, forced to welcome the invaders by Gríma Wormtongue's threatening minions behind their backs. The atmosphere thickened.

Smoke bit into Éomer's eyes and lungs and made him cough, but even though his sight was blurred and his eyes watering, the king spotted a group of men among the crowd that looked more furious than frightened, their expressions and weaponry giving them away as the village's soldiers. Apparently the unexpected attack had robbed them of their horses, but they were armed nevertheless. Hands were clasped around the hilts of their swords or spears, and bows were pointed in the direction of the arrivals as the enemy spilled into the place like a foul, black flood. The king's heart went out to his brave, yet hopelessly outnumbered kinsmen. They were looking death straight into the eye, yet pride and honour kept them from backing down even against overwhelming odds. His gaze found their captain, a brave, stout man he knew from personal experience to be a valiant fighter, and a silent prayer went to the Valar. He hoped that the man would be sensible. Sometimes, there was no sense in pride. It was a lesson Éomer himself had taken great difficulties to learn, but an important one. Nobody would be helped by it if the lives of good warriors were needlessly thrown away. One had to pick the right occasion to make one's stand. But of course recognising those occasions was something that could not be learnt, only felt. It was a matter of instinct. And Éomer's instincts as a warrior told him that this was a lost cause.

Yet there was also the knowledge – despite the hardships history had had in store for his people ever since the first days of the Mark – that their endless courage in the face of overwhelming odds had always been the one defining character-trait which enabled the descendants of Eorl to prevail. The last, and maybe most encouraging proof being the recent battle at Helm's Deep. In almost all the major battles their songs and sagas told of, the Rohirrim had faced impossible odds, and yet through their skills, determination and fierceness as well as their great will they had endured. Of course the captain of Iséndras would not shrink from the challenge Gríma Wormtongue's army presented to him – it simply wasn't in his blood. Very soon, if no miracle happened, blood would be spilled...

Éomer did not know what exactly he intended by staring at the broadly-built man, trying to catch his attention. A moment later, he had it, when the captain's gaze glided over the rows of the intruders – and found him. The king tried to put it all into his eyes despite the huge surge of shame he felt welling up in him.

'_Let them pass through! Do not attack them! If you attack, they will burn down the village and the blood of your people will saturate the ground! There will be a time for revenge, but it is not now!'_

The blue eyes widened in recognition – and disgust – and before Éomer could cast his glance to the ground, he saw a string of muttered curses leave the man's lips before he turned his head to speak to the man next to him, where the reaction was repeated. He had been identified! The sting was sharp and the pain worsened with the rising of angry mutters and shouts all around him. They had spotted him. Even in his deranged state – without his kingly regalia, mud and blood-caked and drenched to the bone - they knew who had returned to Iséndras in spite of his disgrace, and his accursed name was passed through the crowd in low whispers and mutters. All the evil his foe had done to Eomund's son before was nothing compared to the bottomless guilt and sudden fit of extreme self-loathing the crowd's reaction stirred up in him. For a moment, Éomer wished that someone would jump forward and finish him off: behead him, or even gut him, he didn't care. Whatever they'd do to him, he deserved it. All he wanted was get away from this awkward situation, no matter how... a feeling that turned into sheer agony when he spotted a familiar face among the folk in the first rows. He froze. Was unable to escape the accusation engraved into the young woman's delicate features. A surreal coincidence had it that Wormtongue chose this moment to speak.

"People of Iséndras! Listen to me!"

For the first time in his life, Éomer was glad to hear Gríma's voice. It took the focus off him for a moment, but there could be no doubt that it would return. The noise died down to the point where only the angry roar of the fire could still be heard. Gríma paused and let the moment build before he continued. Yet for the life of him, Éomer was unable to break from the young woman's piercing stare. '_Why did you return?_' it asked him. '_Because you wanted to see the misery you caused? Are you pleased with yourself now, my lord?'_

"I know you must be afraid," Wormtongue meanwhile continued from the safety of his horse. A circle of Uruk-hai shielded him from the listening, angry crowd. "You do not know what hit you. I understand that you must be wondering why this horrible attack happened to your village, what you have done to deserve a punishment so severe and who in fact it is that is punishing you!"

Another meaningful break. Despite his misery, Éomer felt like jumping onto the counsellor's steed and snapping the worm's filthy neck. All it would take to bring the White Wizard's vulture within reach was one unexpected tug at the chain that Gríma had casually wrapped around his wrist. The way it looked to Éomer, its end was not even secured to the pommel of his saddle. There was still one more chain to get rid of, though, but the Dunlending who held it appeared to be distracted by the surrounding crowd. If he brought Gríma down… the Uruk-hai would kill him, but Éomer did not care. Maybe this was a way to redeem himself. Maybe his people would forgive him if he killed their attacker without caring what would happen to himself. And maybe… being slain in the course of this deed would not be the worst thing that could happen to him. Because even if he somehow, by some miracle, would be able to return to Edoras, the city of his forefathers and noble kings of Rohan, how on earth could he ever again find peace of mind or forgiveness in himself for what he had done? Wouldn't it be infinitely better to sacrifice himself for his people?

But he could not move. Nor could he breathe, because still that woman's gaze had him pinned like a horse that had run into a pike during an attack, and the pain was just as sharp. Yes, he _wanted_ to die.

"My name is not important" Rohan's bane interrupted Éomer's thoughts, the pale, merciless gaze locked on the village's captain. "I am merely the instrument of others, wrath personified, of those who are too weak to avenge themselves on you for decades and centuries of oppression and murder. Of having their homes destroyed and their children die of hunger because you decided that they were not good enough to share this land with you, that their worth was less than yours because their hair and skin were darker than those of Eorl's heirs. It was reason enough for you to violently chase them away from the lands they had inhabited for as long as they could think, back to a time when the Riddermark was still named Calenardhon and belonged to the realm of Gondor. It was reason enough for you to harass those who were unfortunate enough not to look like you because they did not have the fortune of being born a thoroughbred Rohir! Whether men of other races raped their mothers or whether they sprang from an unlikely love between a man and a woman of different race was of little concern to you! They could try as they might, they would never be more than filth in your eyes! At best, you made fun of them, and they ended up bein the perpetual subjects of your clean-blooded, fair-haired children's cruel jokes. But it also was not below you to punish them even much more severely for what they could not change, too." Gríma exhaled. Again his gaze found the captain's – and held it. "I am here today to teach you respect for those other people you look down on so haughtily, just because you possess what they have not! You look upon them as lowly beings, no better than orcs, as thieves, while you never understood yourselves what it feels like having to feed your families even in times of famine. But fear not, proud Rohirrim, for I am here to teach you that valuable lesson and heal you of your delusions of grandeur once and for all!"

Angry murmurs rose all around them in reaction to his words, and as Éomer stood and watched, still contemplating whether he should go ahead and seek forgiveness in death, he felt the tension rise to an almost unbearable level. What was about to happen seemed unavoidable. He knew what the beginning of a violent outbreak shortly before the slaughter began felt like. Did Gríma know it, too? Was he counting on it, even? Did he want his prisoner to witness the massacre first-hand?

The king swore under his breath, inwardly praying for the captain to come to his senses and save his village from annihilation. From his position behind Wormtongue's horse, which – luckily – shielded him from at least some of the villager's eyes, Éomer watched the spectacle unfold when a sudden tug on the chain around his neck made him stumble out of the beast's shadow.

"In case you are wondering who the pitiful creature I brought along to witness your education is – I already heard his name wander through your rows, and yes, it his him indeed - it is your king!" The murmuring quickly became a shocked silence over which only the flames could still be heard. A collective gasp, and then nothing more. With a sudden swing of the chain's end against his prisoner's head, Wormtongue forced Éomer down on his knees in the middle of the marketplace. Something hot began to trickle down the back of his neck as the crowd gasped in response.

"This sorry-looking, pitiful, filthy excuse for a presumably great warrior is the noble King Éomer, former Marshal of the Mark and son of Éomund, Lord of the Eastfold! A true descendent the noblest house the Riddermark has to offer. The epitome of all that a man of Rohan could aspire to be." Silence. Éomer felt their piercing glances on him, and even if he could not bring himself to lift his head and meet their eyes, he knew what expressions their faces held.

"And now look at him: Bereft of his kingly accessories, filthy, dirty and wet! And weak, not even able to look you in the eye, so ashamed is he! What is left now of that royal grace that separates him from those he wages war against? What is there that sets him – and you – apart from the Dunlendings, except your good fortune of having been born on the presumably 'right', or should I say 'stronger', side?" Another tug at the chain almost brought his prisoner down. An anguished groan escaped the villagers. To Éomer's ears, it sounded like they were cheering. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the inevitable. There would be no honour in death for him. There would only be death, nothing more... and yet he welcomed it.

"Leave him be!" a firm voice rising from the angrily muttering crowd demanded. It was answered by an angry roar.

"I warn you-" Wormtongue began, but his voice was drowned out by the sudden uproar.

It happened from one moment to the next. There was no build-up, no warning, and Éomer didn't even see the first wave of the attack because he was still reeling from the blow to his head. A moment later when his vision cleared, arrows were flying, spears thrust and the crowd was surging towards the invaders with fury in their screaming faces. Behind him, two of his Dunlending guards sank to the ground with an anguished grunt, and the chain around his neck slackened. He turned on his heels, eyes wide, just realising that Wormtongue was in fact now the only one who had a hold of him, and he was being distracted by the riot!

A few fast steps backwards, a violent tug with his full body weight behind it, and the chain fell down. Except for his still chained hands, he was free now! Movement behind him. He swivelled.

"Your arms, my lord! Stay still!"

His arms were being seized, and then there was a metallic crunching sound. The chain gave way, and Éomer pulled his arms from his back against the violent screaming of his neck muscles and the agony in his right side, unable to suppress an anguished grunt. Around them, the battle roared, and all kinds of sharp and pointy objects scythed through the air. The chains fastened to the ring around his neck fell off, cut by – his kinsmen? He stared at the three men surrounding him in stunned bewilderment. What were they doing?

"Go, my lord! They're coming for you!" The captain. He held the reins of the scrawny bay horse Éomer had ridden the past days and motioned for him to move. How could this be? After what he had done, how could they help him? Another frantic gesture. "Quick!"

"The king! Don't let him get away!"

"Come!"

No time to think this through. They were sacrificing themselves for him. Everything would be in vain if he hesitated now. Éomer closed his fingers around the skittish bay's mane and found to his dismay that he was too weak to make it onto the horse's unsaddled back one-armed. The next moment, he was lifted up and swung his leg over.

"Go! Go!"

A last, brief glance into the sweat-beaded, concerned faces broke the king's heart. They were doing this because he was their ruler, and because the honour of the Éorlingas would rather force them to die than have their monarch insulted by an attacking force, no matter what they thought of him. They despised him, but would sacrifice themselves for him nevertheless.

"Thank you. I-" Words failed him. A group of Uruks was coming their way with swinging blades. A brief nod that Éomer hoped expressed all he felt for his people, then he thrust his horse around and kicked his heels into the animal's sides.

"The king!" Gríma's voice, faintly recognisable over the roaring battle, but behind him. "He must not escape!"

With his bad arm pressed against his torso, Éomer urged his steed forward for all he was worth, and the scrawny horse responded with an explosion of speed that took his breath away. The thin body stretched under him, became a horizontal line as the hooves hammered the ground in a frantic rhythm. A quick glance backwards. His vision blurred from the wind and smoke, Éomer saw a huge dark shape clear the battling crowd and charge after him. Gríma was sending the wargs to retrieve his prisoner! He could not see the second one, but was sure that he would encounter it very soon. Presumably, its rider would be trying to cut off his path.

His hand firmly grasping the bay's mane, the king ducked even deeper until he practically lay on his horse, and silently prayed for his steed to give all it had, all of its great heart – and more, if need be!

"Run! Run!" Another glance. The warg was gaining, the threatening grin of the deadly jaws coming closer. There was no doubt he'd be torn apart if the creature brought them down. Wargs were known to be too ferocious even for their own riders. They did only what they wanted to do. They did not follow orders. Even if Gríma wanted him alive, if that warg behind them decided it wanted to bite off his head, he'd be a carcass. Nobody would stop it.

Another look. Closer still! Too close! The jaws opened. Éomer's reaction was sheer reflex – a hard tug on the mane he was holding on to, a violent shift of his body weight, and he virtually threw his steed into a narrow alley. For a precarious moment, the bay's hooves slipped on the wet stones before it found its balance again and – brushing against a wall with its left side – regained its speed. A short praise together with an appreciative pat on the horse's neck as they bolted down the alley. They had won a few lengths with their unexpected turn, but now the warg was back behind them and gaining again… and Éomer still couldn't see the other one! Another alley, another abrupt turn. Again the ploy worked, but up ahead, the huts were thinning out. They had reached the edge of the village, and nothing lay before them but wide open ground.

"Run, my friend! Just a little bit further!" From experience Éomer knew that the great orc-wolves were an explosion of speed for maybe a quarter league at the most. They were still fast after that; but a good horse could surely outlast them in the long run, and what the mount that carried him lacked in constitution, it made up for in bravery. It would tear itself to pieces to carry them both to safety. Maybe it would be enough. Maybe – another look back. The distance had grown. Not much, but visibly enough for him to feel a slight twitch of optimism. '_Yes. Yes!'_

"Come on! Come on!" He knew the horse was already doing its best, but just in case, he kicked his heels into the flanks and then shifted his weight again, more forwards, onto the bay's shoulders where he wouldn't hinder the animals movement as much. Strained even to lift his body up… and the horse responded. Another surge of speed. Faster! The distance grew, and the sight of the slowing predator behind them forced a wild, triumphant cry from the king as they cleared the last hut – and a huge dark shape jumped at them!

No time for a reaction. For a moment, Éomer felt lifted as his steed's hooves left the ground in a frantic attempt to jump over the second warg, then an obscene crunching sound and the impact. The king was thrown from the animals back and against a mountain of muscle under wiry, brown fur. A horrible scream, a gurgling, roaring noise, then Éomer hit the ground with bone-shattering force. A few heartbeats long he lay on his back and stared at the smoke-marred sky, all wind knocked out of him, and then a huge, ugly head moved into his blurring, darkening vision; a notion of glistening white jaws along with the stench of rotting meat…


	13. Racing the Grim Reaper

**Chapter 13: Racing the Grim Reaper**

* * *

Elana had been riding hard for hours to make up for the time she had lost, but when she saw the great columns of smoke billow into the air behind the rolling hills she was headed for, she knew she was too late. There had been no warning for the people of Iséndras. The foul flood of nightmare creatures had assaulted them out of the blue, thanks to her. She swallowed and felt her insides burn. How many had died because of her failure? The sound of a galloping horse to her right side didn't even cause her to turn her head. Firefoot had been around the entire morning, running freely alongside her and Áriel, still skittish and terrified from his experiences two nights before, but longing for companionship just the same. She had not dared to tie the great grey to her saddle, instead counting on the fact that the stallion's need for comfort would continue to keep him around She needed him. If destiny chose to present her with an opportunity to come to the king's aid, she would need his steed to carry him. Her young, delicate mare – her already exhausted mare! – would not be able to carry them both to safety against the ferocious speed of the wargs she had seen. That moment though, she had all but forgotten about the stallion when she saw the rising dark monument to her failure on the horizon. Elana barely dared to climb up the next hill to take that dreaded closer look… but she had to. This was not a time to listen to the strong, inner voice of cowardice whispering in her head to ride to another settlement in order to raise the alert and keep out of harm's way. To let their warriors handle this crisis, because she was just a sixteen year old tribeswoman. A girl! Girls were not supposed to fight, were they? If there just hadn't been that feeling of responsibilty for this mess…

"Sweet Eru…!" The scene was as bad as she had feared when they reached the high ground and were rewarded with a sweeping view of the Westmark's rugged landscape: Up ahead in the near distance, about half a league away, the devastated village of Iséndras lay under a poisonous-looking dark cloud. Towards the centre, the violet-greyish swirling ash was illuminated by raging fires, and even from where she stood, faint echoes of battle could be heard. She swallowed, her stomach tying itself into a painful knot. This was her fault. She could have prevented this slaughter! Why, oh why had she fallen asleep? That dark man's horrible army was down there slaying her kin, and it was all her fault! She had lured the king into the trap, and she had not alarmed her kinsmen when it had been in her power. Did she ever do anything right?

The young woman felt truly miserable as she allowed her hard-breathing mare to slow down to a trot, uncertain of what she was supposed to do now. Ride down there anyway, to see whether she could be of help in the aftermath of the massacre? Look for help someplace else? But where? The next settlement she knew of consisted of only a few farms and lay about a day east from here. They would not be able to be of help! Elana was not even sure whether they had armed forces there at all! She had never travelled far enough from the herdsmen's territory to know. All she knew about the settlement was what her family had told her, so riding ahead seemed to be out of the question. All the more as she would certainly lose the enemy's tracks in the process, thus leaving the king to his destiny. It would mean breaking the silent oath she had made to do everything in her power to rescue him... if he wasn't already dead. Oh, what to do…! It was a half-hearted decision that finally caused her to urge Áriel along in an strength-preserving, trot… towards the burning settlement.

Fear took her heart with a cold hand the closer she came, for with the dwindling distance, the signs of the still raging battle became even more obvious. It appeared to come from the village's centre. Why, really, should she go there? What could she do, except get herself killed, too?

Again uncertain, she pulled at the reins and came to a halt only a short gallop away from the first huts, when – out of the corner of her eyes – a movement demanded her attention. She shifted her view and froze: a large, frightening shape with powerful shoulders was rounding the village's outer huts with long, powerful leaps, almost headed at her, but not looking her way as far as she could tell. What –

Before she had finished the thought, a brown horse bolted through the narrow way between the two first huts, and the warg crashed right into it and lunged for the base of the animal's neck. The terrible impact sent the horse's rider flying full-force into their attacker and his steed somersaulted with the warg's jaws sunken into it's neck. With a terrible, gurgling scream, it tumbled to the ground.

The gruesome sight forced Elana to gasp and made her gag as the orc-wolf's jaws ripped free from the poor animal's flesh without opening. Blood spurted from the horrible wound as the predator swallowed and buried its ugly head again in its dying prey. The horse was done for – what about it's rider? A bad feeling, a very bad feeling turned her innards to water as she shifted her view to the unmoving figure on the ground.

'_No no no no….'_

But it was the king. She was sure of it, even if she had not seen the broken shaft of the black arrow still protruding from his shoulder. The fall had looked violent enough for him to break his neck, but then Elana saw another figure scramble to its knees further back, and without thinking, she rammed her heels into her mare's flanks, acting on pure instinct. The impact had not just dismounted Éomer, but the warg's rider as well, and the huge predator was busy feasting on its prey. This was the one chance she had! Áriel jumped into motion, and they raced towards the gruesome scene – '_If he is unconscious, how am I going to pull him into the saddle? – What if he's dead?'_ – when suddenly another massive shape burst from the alley, Glistening white fangs grinned at her as the warg jumped straight at her without so much as a pause, and she shrieked. Threw her weight onto the mare's other side and turned them both away from the advancing beast in an angle so sharp she could have touched the grass with her right hand –away from Éomer! A sharp clapping sound. The mighty jaws had snapped shut inches away from her horse's rear.

"Run Áriel! Run!" Finally, her turn to defeat death. She ducked behind the mare's neck and stood up in the stirrups to take her weight off her steed's back. The dark-grey mane whipped her face as she virtually thrust the mare forward, giving her head free, and the wind roared in Elana's ears as the half-meara launched into a race with the grim reaper. A brief glance over her shoulder: The warg was falling back in reaction to their fierce explosion of speed, but not so far that the hopelessness of the chase made its rider abandon the attack. Of course he had to know as well as Elana that they would not be able to keep up their speed for long and was already settling into a pace that would ultimately wear their prey out . He could not know that Áriel had already been running hard for hours, and that the moment of exhaustion would presumably come very soon. Even the legendary speed and stamina of the mearas had its limitations. The girl did not know where the warg's limits lay, but had a premonitory feeling that the hunter would triumph in the end. Already, she felt the hard pumping of her horse's lungs, heard her hard, ragged breathing. It was painfully obvious that Áriel would not be able to keep her pace much longer, and still there was nothing in sight that could be of help for them, only the wide, rolling hills.

"I know you are tired," she finally uttered in Rohirric, patting her steed's sweaty neck in a desperate plea "- but you can do this! You are faster than him! Come on, Áriel!" She let her hand rest where it was and looked back again. The same view. The warg was not so close that it represented an immediate threat, but then again it didn't look as if it was going at full speed. It was chasing them and at the same time conserving its strength. Its rider was counting on his steed's superior stamina. He was in no hurry to bring them down. Sooner rather than later, prey would be his. She saw the terrible confidence written all over the ugly face even over the distance and froze: they would die today.

Muttered words. Heavy panting and growling. The percussion of heavy steps all around him. A sickening, foul stench. Warm, foul-smelling air was blown into his face. Something dripped onto his cheek and oozed its way down to his ears. It stank. A deep, menacing snarl, then an outburst of angered yelling. Movement. Something to his right side roared and wandered out in the distance. The smell of blood and guts. His head was being lifted, and his mouth forced open. Éomer knew the procedure by now, and even the vile taste of Gríma's potion did not bother him anymore. The connection between his mind and body was very frail now, very delicate, and his once iron will weakened to the point where he could not even move a finger. Why was he still not dead? The discussion went on over him, but it took more concentration than he had available to make sense of the words.

"Yes, today. The smoke must be visible over many leagues. It will attract the attention of the Westfold's éoreds, and when they arrive here, we must not be here anymore. I know Erkenbrand is at Edoras these days, but that doesn't mean he left his territory unguarded." A question was grunted. "Put him onto a saddle: tie him to it, if you have to, but make haste. We need to leave here at once." Another question. Wormtongue was beginning to sound angered. "I do not care which one you take! Tie him to the warg if you have to, but we have to move quickly now." Incredibly, another objection. Éomer waited for the sound of a sword and a falling head, but in vain. "Yes, he will remain in the saddle. I made the potion strong this time. It should keep him up until nightfall. By then we need to be at least five leagues away from here! Move!"

Silence. Then the familiar sound of hooves nearing. Vague relief. They would not tie him onto the warg, praise Eru! As much as Éomer knew he was finished, there were still certain things that simply shouldn't have to be. Strong hands seized him from both sides and lifted him up as if he were a scarecrow felled by a gust of wind. There was no pain. His flesh had been driven past agony to numbness, following his dazed mind. The discovery renewed his hope that it all would soon be over…

It was impossible to shake their pursuers. The chase had been going on for she didn't know how long, but it felt like an eternity, and the terrain had become increasingly rougher and trickier for the mare's tired legs. Áriel was dark with sweat, her body so hot that steam rose from her hide into the chilly air, and her breath came in hard, ragged bursts. Twice in the last minutes, she had stumbled and barely avoided a fall, and their enemy had both times almost been close enough to make use of the opportunity. The warg-rider was chasing her with all the accumulated experience, cunning and patience of a seasoned hunter. Never hasty, never spoiling an opportunity by acting too rashly, and always near to close in for the kill upon even the smallest mistake of his prey. His method became more frightening by the minute.

The mare stumbled again, and this time, Elana was almost unseated. She shrieked and desperately clawed at the dark grey mane to straighten herself in the saddle. Another look back. The warg was gaining on them now. It's paws had a better grip of this treacherous terrain and it was closing in now to finish them off, the gaping jaws grinning at her and promising her an ugly death, girl or woman or not. Orcs and their steeds had no noble concerns, no higher morale that would lead them to spare the supposedly weaker from being slaughtered. Her gaze travelled over the yellow, murderously sparkling eyes of the huge predator and down to its lolling red tongue. Her blood would be just as red…

"Áriel…" she whimpered, a terrified, pleading sound. It was impossible to turn her eyes away from the approaching predator. Each of its mighty leaps brought it closer now as they ascended another long, steep hill. The mare's rear-muscles were trembling from the strain of the uphill run. She was rapidly nearing breakdown now. One way or the other, this would be the last hill for her.

Behind them, the panting of the orc-wolf was getting so close that Elana did not even dare to turn around for another look for fear that the image of the gaping jaws would freeze her. They were losing this race. The grim reaper would have his harvest, no matter where she turned now. A cold fist pressed her innards together as they finally reached the top of the ascent with one last, mighty effort, the warg now so close on their heels that its foul breath assaulted her nostrils. She braced for the excruciating pain of being torn apart…

A sudden flurry of activity in front of them. Pale sunlight sparkled on metal shields and helmets, blinding her. The notion of a great number of horses, moving all around her, then an alarmed scream from the left.

"Warg-rider!"

A rush of activity as swords were drawn and spears readied. The next second, the thunder of hooves drowned out everything else as a vast group of horses and riders swept past her by like a raging river around a rock. What- ? Who-?

The éored passed her at a frenzied pace and rushed down the hill in a deadly wave of glistening, sharp steel. For a moment, Elana thought she heard the furious roar of the great orc-wolf, then it, too, was drowned out by the horses and the sounds of the battle. Fighting to catch her breath and eyes wide in wonder about what had happened, she turned her steed around and allowed her to slow down to a walk. One hand went to the dark, wet neck and patted it gratefully. The lean torso between her legs was pumping like a pair of bellows, but Elana's attention was elsewhere. The warriors were returning. Behind them, the columns of smoke still marred the pale afternoon sky in the distance.

A moment later, the shimmering spears and helmets flooded over the edge of the hill towards her. Pulling the reins, Elana came to a halt as a tall, fierce-looking warrior with a dark horse-tail on the back of his helmet rode up to her. As glad as she was to see him and his men, the piercing scrutiny of his dark grey eyes made her want to shrink and hide, especially when she saw the blood-covered spear in his hand. His éored – about fifty men, Elana assumed – assembled close behind him as he came to a stop in front of her, eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing out here on your own, child?" His deep voice fitted his impressive frame. "The war may be over, yet it should be in every Rohir's blood that the Mark is never a safe place, especially for the lone traveller. You were lucky."

"Aye, my lord," she admitted, intimidated by his superior stance and sudden recognition of his artfully crafted cuirass and helmet. She had seen him before many times, but only from a distance. '_Marshal Elfhelm!' It is Marshal Elhelm!'_ Her heart jumped in sudden excitement. It could have only been the Valar's will that she had run into the Lord of the Eastmark in the time of her greatest need. But what was he doing here? This was not his territory! "Aye, I know that. And I thank you and your men for saving me. A moment later, and my foe would have killed me."

"It looked that way, yes." Elfhelm looked back, and a grim, satisfied expression wandered over his broad, bearded face. A cruel, twisted scar wound its way down his brow to the corner of his left eye and added to the air of the seasoned warrior his reputation spoke of. It made Elana wonder what had happened to him when he collected it. "But the proximity of his prey made the filth careless. Now he's food for the ravens. Orcs…" He grimaced in disdain. Another scrutinising glance at her. "So… what are you doing out here in the wild, all on your own, child? And who are you?"

"I am Elana of the Great Herd, my lord. My being here is not my own choosing. A few days ago, our herd was attacked and almost wiped out, so I called at Edoras for help… and the king himself answered with his personal éored. What we did not know though was that it was a trap! We were used as bait, my lord, to lure the king into the trap. Someone captured him! I was following the enemy to see where they were headed, and then find help for Éomer-King."

Deadly silence. For a moment, all that could be heard on the top of the hill was the blowing wind and the ringing of metal parts from bridles and armour. The brown eyes in front of her narrowed in disbelief.

"Éomer is out here in the Westfold?"

"Aye, my lord. He was captured by an army of great orcs two nights ago – and he is badly wounded!" Gradually Elana became aware that the entire éored was staring at her with stunned expressions, then – as if sent by Eru himself – a distant neighing sound rose through the air from below them.

"Elfhelm! There!" One of the soldiers pointed the way she had come. A great, grey horse came running their way like an apparition, its head wearing a familiar bridle of brownish-red leather. The men gasped as it became clear even to the last of them that the young woman in front of them was speaking the truth.

"That is Firefoot, or Eru strike me where I stand!" Elfhelm's expression turned from scepticism to open concern. Elana nodded.

"Aye, it is him. He has been following me since yesterday, but I didn't dare tie him to my mare." The marshal's attention returned to her, and the sudden urgency in his gaze told her that he needed to know everything – at once.


	14. Ghosts and Legends

**Chapter 14: Ghosts and Legends**

* * *

Fire. Raging fire. Blistering heat that seared his lungs, and the thick stench of smoke that forced him to cough and made it almost impossible to breathe. The fire had spread, and now the village was burning to the ground. Black rain falling down on them, stinking, ashen mud. Screams. Those awful screams of the wounded and dying… The images burnt themselves into Éomer's mind. So much blood. So much death... because of him.

"You should not have encouraged them, my liege," a reproachful voice trickled into his ears from the left. He was too weak to look, too devastated by the destruction they were riding through. "Now see what you have done. I had no intention to let it come to this."

A woman stumbled across their path, her clothes torn, her face ash-smeared and a look in her eyes that reminded Éomer of a horse wild with terror. She was holding her bleeding, strangely twisted arm and shouting a name again and again, oblivious to their presence. The Uruk-hai shoved her out of their way without so much as slowing down, and she fell to her knees in the mud and cried out.

The marketplace. The scene of a massacre. Bodies lay strewn in the dirt, and the rain on the ground was reddened by their blood. More crying and pained shouts, more misery. Two limping men, their faces hardly recognisable under congealed blood, were dragging another, more heavily wounded soldier to the side before he came under their army's feet.

Death wherever he looked. His kinsmen had sacrificed themselves for him, and he had not even been able to make use of the opportunity they had bought him with their lives.

A sudden flurry of motion at the end of the marketplace, something bright, eerily out-of-place in the sinister surroundings. Too weak to lift his head, the king stared at the source of the disturbance from under his eyebrows. His jaw dropped open. It was a horse. But there was something wrong with it, something he could not name at first. Something was off. Something with its colour... and its feel. It was of a sickly pale white, a colour that seemed to spread its ghostly glow into the darkening twilight as it pranced in front of the houses, up and down, up and down, but without the sound of hooves that belonged to the image. It threw its head and sent its long mane flying, and as it did so, Éomer saw that its eyes were of a dead, hollow black. A blackness that seemed to reach for him, to suck him in. Slowly it dawned on him that he was not looking at a real horse, a creature made of flesh and blood. It was an apparition… a vision that sent a chill down his spine as he finally grasp the meaning of it.

"My lord?" Gríma continued to speak to him, but as far as the king was concerned, the dark counsellor was not even there as he stared mesmerised at the prancing stallion.

It was Sleipnir, the Ghost Horse only those about to die could see. He had heard about it from several men in the aftermath of the battles he had been in, men who had been so severely wounded that they had soon afterwards died. The memory of their wide-eyed stare at a point where nothing except grass had been had spooked him back then, and even more when they had uttered the name. As a long-time member of the valiant riders, Éomer was well-versed in all kinds of Rohirric lore and sagas, but there had always been parts of it he had rejected as fairy-tales. The tale of the Ghost-Horse had been among them, but now the pale, riderless horse was waiting for _him_ to take him away to the realm of death. And - strangely enough - Éomer found that he was not frightened by the prospect. In fact, he welcomed it, but when he opened his mouth to invite the stallion to come closer, it bolted away… to stop at the end of the alley… and wait.

The sight of it brought a sudden smile to his lips.

"What is it, my lord, that you find so amusing? Will you not let me in on the jest?"

But Éomer's smile only deepened, and there was an unexpected joyful glint in his eyes as he saw the Ghost Horse break away again, only to slow down again at the last hut of the village… and wait again.

------------------------

"No, please! You cannot leave me here! I need to see-"

"You cannot come with us, Elana," Elfhelm declared with rock-hard determination in his voice. The daylight was fading, and soon it would be impossible to follow the tracks the enemy had left. They would have to make haste. From what he had been able to gather from the reports his second scout had returned with – the first one had insisted on further following the enemy – the situation looked stern for Éomer. They had to come to his aid as fast as they possibly could, even if he was not yet sure about his strategy.

"You will stay here, or return to your people as soon as your mare has sufficiently recovered. We are heading into battle. You will not be of use to us there, and I will not see you needlessly killed. You did much for the king already, and it will not be forgotten once we've freed him. But in this situation, you will be a hindrance to us. Go home, lass!" He turned away from her mask of frustration to face his expectant men. "Fránca, Bernhelm, you ride to Marshal Erkenbrand's stronghold. Tell them to send a fresh rider to Edoras with the tidings we have, and then gather what men they can give you and meet us at Helm's Deep. Once we've freed Éomer, we shall await you there. The Deeping Wall and the gate have not yet been repaired, but even so, it's probably the only place where we can hold off an enemy's army long enough to have half a chance, but you'll have to make haste!"

The two men nodded their affirmation and urged their steeds into a fast-paced canter.

"Lord Elfhelm-"

"I will not repeat my words." Elfhelm turned his horse way from the girl. His men looked eager to leave. The image of the smouldering ruins of Iséndras behind them turned his bloodstream into a churning white-hot river. Nobody could do this to the Rohirrim and live to tell about it, not while there was a single breath left in him. "Go and help the villagers, they will need every hand they can get. If you want to make yourself useful, this is the place where you are needed. Not where we are going. Let's go, Rohirrim!" The angry yell of his éored answered him as he kicked his heels into his steed's sides and took off . Thunder followed him.

Elana watched them disappear in the diffused twilight with a sinking feeling in her stomach. While the marshal's words made perfect sense and she certainly did not want to experience his éored's battle with the dark man's army, the bitter feeling of being unjustly left out was unshakeable. She wanted to see Éomer freed. She _needed_ to see him alive and well to feel better.

The sound of hooves neared her from the left and distracted her from her gloomy thoughts, and when she turned around, her aching heart felt a little comfort as she spotted the dark grey silhouette that was coming her way at a swift trot.

"Áriel…" She took a few steps in the mare's direction and her fingers closed around the simple bridle while the other hand caressed the horse's face. "What are we supposed to do now, little one?" She turned around to face the smouldering ruins of the village. The marshal had been right. Her place was there, at least for the night. Tomorrow she would begin the journey home, but tonight... this was where she could help, even if she dreaded to see the full scale of what had happened to the people of Iséndras. Reluctantly, she made for the first huts in the fading daylight…

They had stopped. Éomer did not know how long they had ridden, nor where they were or how late it was. All he knew was that it was dark, and he was weary and tired and wanted nothing more than go to sleep... preferably without having to wake up. The Ghost Horse had been following them all the way from Iséndras and was passing them again on the hill to his left, but Éomer did not even bother to look up anymore. In his life, he had come to know fundamental exhaustion before, had in fact experienced it many a time, but never anything like this. He felt hollow... as if he were on his way to becoming a wraith. This must be what their state felt like. Insubstantial, weightless, as if the wind could carry him away like an old, dried autumn leaf. Would he pass over into that realm, or would Sleipnir be faster and carry him to where his forefathers were looking down on him?

Again he was being seized by powerful hands as a horrible thought occurred to him: he would not be accepted among the great kings! Eorl the Young, Helm Hammerhand... his uncle... he would disgrace them with his presence! They would never tolerate someone in their midst whose soul was stained with the blood of his own people! What great deed had he done to outweigh his sins in their eyes? Leading the Rohirrim to victory on the Pelennor? No. Most of that honour went to Théoden, and if it had not been for Aragorn's arrival with the Army of the Dead, they would still have lost. The glory of that day was not his to have, not his own. The battle at the Morannon? Same again. That time, they had been saved by the courage of two halflings. What had he ever done to deserve a place among his forefathers?

With a thud, he was unceremoniously thrown to the ground and his hands again seized and tied. He hardly minded. The concerns of his body were so far removed from him now, its signals no longer reached him. He was not even cold anymore. The heat from the burning village seemed to have followed them out here, into the deepest, darkest realm of the night-shrouded Westmark. It was strange in fact, for as far as he could see, they had not built any campfires, even though the night was so chilly that he saw white vapour rise from the Uruks' mouths with every breath. But who was he to complain about the state he was in? It had been well-earned. He deserved every bit of what Wormtongue had come up with. Maybe... maybe some higher force had brought the dark counsellor back from the dead to haunt him for his sins. Maybe... this was the Valars' retribution against those who misused their great power.

'_With great power comes great responsibility,'_ his father had always told him when Éomer had still been a boy, and he had listened eagerly, pretending to understand, but he hadn't. And when power had passed to him, what had he done with it? Instead of protecting his kin with it, he had used it to intimidate the people who looked up to him and depended on him, he had corrupted it, tweaked and twisted it to bring about his will, to take whatever he wanted, whatever rank he wanted to achieve, whatever woman he desired to have, and in the process burnt down all of the young boy's ideals of that time when he swore the soldier's oath seemingly a lifetime ago. He had failed his kin on a scale that was impossible to comprehend.

"My lord...?" Hands wandered over his body and probed for broken bones. He did not care to look at Wormtongue, not even when his adversary – and the way it looked to him now, supernatural judge - inspected his shoulder again and a telling whiff of sickening sweetness reached his nostrils. His eyes remained focussed on the shiny white horse on the hill as it turned its proud head and looked at him...

-----------------------

Elfhelm knew not how late it was when he finally saw the black silhouette of Thor, his experienced first scout, looking out for them from the next hill. The moon had already wandered a good part of its way to morning on the starlit sky, and there was not a sound to be heard all around them as his éored slowed down to a walk except for the hard breathing of their horses, jingling of little metal parts on saddles and bridles and muffled steps on grassy ground. Thor's presence could only mean that the enemy was very close. They met halfway up the hill.

"Marshal?" the scout acknowledged his superior with a curt nod. Elfhelm gave it back, eager to hear his report. "It is good to see you. We need to act immediately. The timing would be just right, as half of the enemy's army appears to be asleep." He pointed at the hill with his chin. "They are about a quarter-league away, nestled into a niche below one of the steeper hills. I dared not to move any closer, because they have a warg-patrol on duty, and I suppose they are already suspecting something is ill, because the one we killed did not return."

Elfhelm furrowed his brow as he looked in the direction the half-Dunlending indicated. It was less than a perfect opportunity. They had been riding for four hours straight, and both the men and their steeds needed rest. But could he afford to wait?

"What can you tell me about the enemy? How great is their number?"

"Like I said, Marshal, I dared not to get too close, for they were wary already, and the warg-rider was constantly circling their host. But I think it is safe to assume that we are faced with a host of at least one hundred and fifty Uruk-hai."

"One hundred and fifty! The girl said there were about two hundred!"

Thor shook his head.

"They are definitely less, although I cannot give you their exact number. It was too dark for a better calculation."

"What about the king?" Elfhelm's gut twisted into a knot in expectation of his scout's answer. He and Éomer had been riding together ever since the current king had started his soldier's duty at the age of sixteen, and even before then had he known the lad from his service under Éomund. Elfhelm had been there to comfort the boy on that dreadful day almost two decades back, when he himself had been but a young man of twenty-four years. When Éomer had finally been allowed to join the armed forces, it had been his éored the boy had been assigned to, and Elfhelm had taken him under his wing – not only out of an obligation to the late Lord of the Eastmark, but because he had been moved by the sincere boy's dedication to becoming a great warrior and protecting their people. Elfhelm taught Éomer everything he knew, from battle skills to strategy to survival techniques; the value of honour, and pride, and courage; respect, mercy and compassion. Duty. Whatever there had been to know about, he had taught young Éomer, and even though the boy had been so young then, he had understood quickly... and learned to apply his new knowledge.

Apart from Éothain – '_who is dead now!'_ – Elfhelm was, as far as he knew - the only one whom Éomer would not permit to address him as "king". They were and always had been friends. He would not let his friend die.

Thor's face was shadowed, but his voice sounded grim enough.

"Again, I could not see much, but… if it is indeed Éomer, we need to move. Even from a distance, he appeared to be rather lifeless. They had tied him to the saddle in order for him to stay on the horse." A leaden pause as silent communication passed between the two men. '_We both know what that means. Éomer is not one to fall from a horse's back unless he is unconscious.'_ Elfhelm's lips formed a thin line. "And when they stopped, they had to pull him down. I did not see him move on his own." He took a deep breath and looked at his marshal in expectation. Determined, Elfhelm gave his scout a curt nod and then turned around to face his men.

"Rohirrim? You stay here and wait. Make no sound; the enemy is close. Thor and Findárras, you come with me. I need to see for myself... and we will need to discuss our strategy."


	15. To the Rescue

**Chapter 15: To the Rescue**

* * *

"I do not believe it," Findárras, Elhelm's second-in-command, muttered into the grass as he peered down from the steep hill they were lying on. "I thought they were all dead. That there were none left after the battle at the Hornburg. And yet there they are!" There was very limited activity in the camp below them, but there were enough of the hulking dark shapes moving around in the pale moonlight to give them unmistakably away.: Uruk-hai, the most fearsome breed of orc ever to disgrace the face of Middle Earth. Somehow, he had hoped the girl was mistaken.

"They must have come from outside the Mark, although what would lead them here is completely beyond me. Or should I rather say 'who'? I do not believe for a moment that Uruks, as advanced as they may be from common orcs, would act like that – set up an elaborate trap to lure Éomer out of Edoras, and then capture, but not kill him? Uruks are no strategists. There has to be a human foe behind this scheme, mark my words," Elfhelm growled while he stared in equal disbelief at the large host of Uruk-hai below. These foul things had killed Éothain, who had been a good friend of his. From what the girl had told him, they had killed Éomer's entire personal éored, most of which had been experienced long-time warriors Elfhelm had known for at least a decade. A deep, churning rage started to build in the pit of his stomach. And where was the king himself?

"There's the warg!" Thor mumbled next to him, pointing a finger at the right end of the upwards-turned U-shape in which the army had built their camp. "Still patrolling. But he cannot pick up our scent where we lie." The wind was blowing into their faces.

"But he will pick it up long before we actually reach them up if we attack them from that side, and as far as I can see, these Uruks have range weapons. These are no club-wielding, primitive creatures like trolls – I am certain they know how to use a bow or crossbow. If we attack from this side, they will inflict heavy damage on us... and we cannot come from here, either." Findárras scratched his beard pensively. "With this wall in his back, the enemy is untouchable."

"Whoever commands that army is no fool," Elfhelm admitted. "Which confirms that it can't be a Uruk. Thor, can you see-"

"I see the king!" the scout suddenly hissed in excitement, barely able to restrain his voice. "There! Almost in a direct line below us, in the middle of the 'u'. I cannot make out his face, but it _has_ to be him!"

Elfhelm concentrated on the dark shape Thor was pointing out to them and narrowed his eyes. It was hard to say. There were no campfires, and the moonlight was not bright enough to illuminate details such as faces. The man was lying on the ground and did not move. He was not wearing any armour, and while he appeared to have long hair, it looked darker than Éomer's. But then again, it had been raining for hours. The marshal had known the king almost all his life, but even he was unable to recognise him. He would have to trust his scout.

"And you are certain?"

"I am. In addition to his appearance, they are also keeping him well behind their line of defence. If someone would try to rescue the king, he would first have to plough through their entire army to get him – and get out that way again. Impossible… at least for a force as small as ours. We are at least three times outnumbered, and they have the advantage of the place. A direct attack would result in disaster."

"Indeed." Elfhelm bit his lower lip, his brow furrowed in deep thought. "The warg-rider patrols in front of them, and they have this cliff to protect their backs. Nothing can come at them this way… or at least they think so." He peered down at the steep, rocky slope… looked at the prone silhouette again… and again at the steep wall beneath them. Then at his two companions. The grim smile on their marshal's face told them all they needed to know…

---------------------------

"At last, it looks as if your destiny has found you, brother." The slim, ethereal figure had somehow made it unnoticed through the lines of Uruk-hai, and as Éowyn stood before him, Éomer saw a hard, unforgiving glare in her – for a Rohir - uncharacteristically dark eyes. It was a trait they both shared, yet in this moment, it seemed to be the only thing they shared as she came to a halt at his feet without making the slightest move to free him. "Now that you've tasted it, how do you like it?"

"I am sorry, Éowyn," he croaked, shocked by his sister's vengeful appearance. His pitiful state seemed to amuse her. There was a cruel expression on her beautiful face he had never seen before, the delicate lines utterly devoid of compassion as she continued to stare down at him. As 'an early spring morning, still touched by frost,' his men had always described the White Lady, but of course never to his face. He had found out anyhow and always wondered about the expression, for he knew of Éowyn's great capacity for passion and compassion. But as she stood before him now, her long, blonde hair blowing in the slight, chilly night breeze, his sister lived up to her reputation. Her gaze was sheer ice and froze him to the core. "I never intended to… I never wanted-"

"Your words are the words of a coward," she interrupted him brusquely, her voice deep with anger. "Not even in the face of death do you have the courage to openly admit your failure and stand by your mistakes. I spent years withering in the dark shadow of Meduseld, imprisoned by your fears, and now you think you can just plead for forgiveness and everything will be forgotten?" She took a deep breath, and her gaze turned even colder. "You do not even mean your words. You will say anything you think I want to hear, even though you will never understand what you did to me. You are like a dog that desperately wants to please its master. You are pitiful. I am ashamed to call you my brother."

There were no words that seemed fitting as a reply. Her words were sharper, the pain they inflicted more agonising than any sword. They hurt even worse than Wormtongue's, for as masterfully as his captor handled language, it was Éowyn he had loved ever since she had been placed into his arms for the first time as a tiny bundle wrapped in a blanket when he had been but four years old. All through their youth, their adolescence and maturity, she had looked up to him, confided in him and sought his protection and comfort when her days had been almost too dark to bear. And now... _she hated him_?

Behind her fragile silhouette, Sleipnir thrust his head down and continued his dance on the slope. He was closer now, but still dared not approach him. Éomer hoped he would not wait much longer; he was yearning to get away – from his captor, his bad conscience, even from his sister now. He had barely ended the thought when Éowyn's face melted away… and suddenly his uncle stood before him. Not the King Théoden filled with life he had followed into battle on the Pelennor, but the old, bent, dishonoured prisoner of Saruman's. He leant heavily on a staff, and his eyes regarded his nephew with tragic disillusionment.

"You achieved what you craved more than anything else in the world, sister-son. Hail, Éomer-King! You must have been pleased indeed when the messenger brought the news of Théodred's death. Nobody stood between you and the throne of Rohan anymore."

"_Pleased_?" Éomer's eyes widened at the horrible accusation. "I was as shattered as you, uncle! Théodred had been like a brother to me! If you remember, it was _I _who brought him home all the way from the Fords of the Isen. Would I have done so if I had wanted his death?" But he could not get through. Théoden's face was grief-stricken as he glanced down on the fallen king.

"Alas, I had not listened to Gríma's accusations for a long time. I had been hoping that you would still find your way, that you would start to listen to what the people were saying. I had such high hopes for you…" To Éomer's dismay, the old man started to weep. The thin, weak body shook so hard that the staff fell from Théoden's grasp, and he swayed.

"Uncle…" Frantically searching for a way to redeem himself, Éomer stared up, his lips moving, but the words would not come to him… and when he blinked, Théoden was gone and it was his captor he was looking at. The pale blue eyes went straight through his defences all the way down to his ugly, stained soul, and the thin lips curled into a nasty smirk.

"You were talking, my lord? To whom? There is no one here." Éomer remained silent. The gaze was almost hypnotising. He could not avert his eyes... nor could he close them. Gríma moved another step closer, and the malicious smirk deepened. "Are you bidding your kin farewell... or are you asking them for forgiveness? They will not hear you, my liege. They are far away... or dead." The dark counsellor squatted down next to his prisoner and eyes gleaming in delight.

He could not think... or speak. _He. Could. Not_. Those pale eyes...

"Are you praying to the Valar to let you die? Spare the effort. I will not let you die... not yet. What you witnessed today was barely the beginning. Soon, the entire Mark will experience what the people of Iséndras tasted today. It is only a matter of time before the kingdom of Rohan will be wiped off the face of Middle Earth." He laid a hand on Éomer's hot brow and then held out the water-skin he had brought with him, pressing it against Éomer's tightly shut lips. And shook his head in disapproval. "It is water, my lord. You are running a fever. You need to drink."

"Leave me alone, snake..." Finally, his tongue obeyed him, even if it was hardly a whisper. The next moment, his chin was seized and a cool liquid filled his mouth. He swallowed, too exhausted to fight Gríma off. It was a bad sign that the scrawny counsellor was by now stronger than he, but hardly a wonder. The water tasted strange on its way down, and as Éomer turned his face away, he knew he had once again been given one of his foe's potions. Closing his eyes and sinking back as Gríma came to his feet at his side, he closed his eyes and wondered briefly what it would do to him ... as a sudden shout rang out in the darkness, and all hell broke loose!

The thunder of hooves approaching the opening of the niche they were settled in was not to be overheard – someone had come to his aid, and from the sound of it, it was a big éored, more men than he had taken along on his ill-fated venture into the meara-valley. Elfhelm? Could it be Elfhelm? No. The Lord of the Eastmark had to be home by now, back at Aldburg... or at least at Edoras, waiting for his king to return from his own errand to issue his report. It could not be his teacher and friend of old.

'_And he is not my friend anymore. Not after what I have done. He would not risk the lives of his men to rescue his immoral king.' – ' Then who is it?'_

Dazed and confused, Éomer tried to turn his head at the sound of the roaring Uruk-hai, but was too weak to even sit up. Wormtongue still stood next to him, but his foe's attention was entirely consumed by the sudden attack, the pale eyes focussed on the darkness beyond as he shook his head in open bewilderment.

"I cannot believe your men are stupid enough to attack us here! They will pay a hefty price for their boldness!" Gríma sneered and rushed away, leaving his captive lying on the ground, a muttered curse trickling from his lips as he left to organise their defence. Pathetically scrambling in the dirt, Éomer somehow managed to push himself into a half-sitting position against the rock he was leaning on just when, with a swishing sound, an arrow passed over his head and embedded itself in the cliff behind him. An arrow of a familiar design. For the duration of a heartbeat, the sight of it forced the vaguest hint of a smile on the king's face… but it died with the next. Did he want to be rescued? What for? His men – more men! - were dying for him in this attack, and not because they loved and honoured him, but out of duty. Because it was impossible for any self-respecting Rohir to let himself be insulted by an enemy in that way. Because it would be a signal of weakness to their other foes, such as the Dunlendings, if they allowed an enemy to capture and kill their king without any kind of retribution. No, an example had to be set; the attackers had to be destroyed – for the sake of the Mark. They did not do it for him, but they were dying nevertheless, loading yet more guilt onto his already burdened mind.

Further back, a horse's awful dying scream could be heard, drowned out by the triumphant roar of a Uruk. Mesmerised, Éomer stared into the darkness, while at the same time he registered from the corner of his eyes that the ghost horse was following his gaze intently. The way the battle raged, its service would be needed someplace else sooner than here.

'_No,'_ he thought, desperate. Sleipnir started down the slope... away from him. '_Don't_ _leave me here! Take me with you!'_

Sand trickled on his head. He was too absorbed to notice. The stallion rushed down the hill with bizarre effortlessness. He almost seemed to glide. Soon, he was among the Uruks. They paid him no attention as he charged through their rows to where another desperate cry rang out.

'_No, come back!'_ Éomer's eyes started to burn with agonising despair. Why was everybody deserting him? Now it looked as if not even death welcomed his presence anymore.

More sand. And gravel. A flint hit his head and fell to the ground. Reflexively, he looked up – and squinted as a load of sand rained into his eyes, but just before his sight vanished, the king caught the glimpse of heavy boots. What-

"Éomer!" The voice sounded muffled and strained with effort, but he recognised it nonetheless. Yet it could not be! It had to be a vision, something his dazed mind had come up with to torture him yet again. Still there was more gravel raining down on him…

The next moment, a heavy weight landed at his left side, and he forced his eyes open, blinking heavily to force the sand out. Elfhelm's broad, scarred face filled his vision as he kneeled down next to him, open concern written all over his features.

"Éomer?" A hand grasped his good shoulder and gave it an assuring squeeze as the marshal cast a quick glance in the direction of the battle. Nobody had noticed the unexpected guest yet, but they could not hope for their luck to last much longer. Elfhelm's attention returned to his king as he widened the sling he had wrapped around himself and slid it over Éomer's head and shoulders, careful not to touch the protruding bolt. "This will hurt, but it will only be for a short time. Hold on!" He pulled the sling tight, wrapped one arm around the younger man and gave the rope a quick tug.

They were pulled upwards so fast that Éomer had no time to prepare himself for the pain, and his initial grunt became a yell as the rope slid under his bad shoulder. Elfhelm's hand over his mouth came too late. Not far from them, a dark silhouette spun around on its heels – and shouted, frantically yanking the Uruk-hai next to it around. The Uruk had a readied crossbow in his hands as it closed the distance with huge strides, already aiming.

"Faster, Thor! Faster!" As the cruel weapon was lifted up at them, Elfhelm struggled to both keep the limp form of his friend in the sling and prop his feet against the rock-wall to send them spinning in order to provide a more difficult target. A cry from above – "The rope!" – then a sudden drop. Something passed the marshal's left ear so close by, he felt the slight draft of air, before it embedded itself into the slope behind as they were violently jerked upwards again. The older warrior grunted as the rope cut into his rib cage. More Uruks had abandoned the battle and were headed their way now! "Thor!"

One last tug, a violent upwards heave – and then eager hands helped them over the edge of the cliff. An angered scream reached their ears from below. Frantically, Elfhelm freed himself from the sling and pressed a hand against the king's neck. He found a fast-beating, strong pulse. Good… but why was his skin so hot? It felt as if Éomer was burning up from the inside!

"Éomer? Come on, we need you awake! Thor, give the signal!"

"Marshal, we need to move!" Findárras urged them on from the edge of the cliff, peering down in concern, while the scout blew the horn. Their riders would abandon the attack now, separate into three groups of equal size and head for the first settlement in the direction of Helm's Deep on different paths in order to confuse the enemy. "They're all coming our way! It's like an angry beehive down there!" He ducked a flying arrow and retreated.

"I know," Elfhelm grunted, still shaking the moaning king and shouting into his friend's face. "For Eru's sake, Éomer, _wake up_!" His efforts were rewarded when the younger man's eyelids fluttered… and then opened to reveal a dazed, confused look. A short, grim smile crossed the marshal's face as he speedily propped Éomer into a sitting position to slide his hands under his shoulders. "Welcome back, my friend. I need you to stay in a saddle. Can you do that?"

"Aye…"

"Findárras, help me!" Elfhelm was certain that Éomer had not actually understood his question as he seized his friend's bad arm and pulled him to his feet while his second-in-command supported him from the other side. Another pained yell, but there was no time to do this in a gentler way. "Thor!"

"I've got him. Go ahead!" The scout held Elfhelm's dark-brown steed tightly and watched anxiously as his two brothers-in-arms wrestled the limp king into the saddle while the noise of the approaching Uruk-hai began to rise behind them as they swarmed up the hill. "Ready?"

Elfhelm nodded and - breathing hard, slid into the saddle behind Éomer's slumped form, sweat-drenched from the effort. Mounting his own horse, Thor cast a sceptic glance at the two men.

"I hope he remains in the saddle."

"If he falls, we are dead," Elfhelm muttered and – seeing the first dark shapes of their enemy appear on the top of the hill behind them, kicked his heels into his steed's flanks.


	16. Running

**Chapter 16: Running**

* * *

The darkness had faded to a pale, grey dawn, a light that promised snow from the thick clouds over their heads when the four men on their three steeds came to a halt. Elfhelm's dark bay was drenched in sweat, vapour rising from its heated body into the cold morning air and it was breathing heavily from the effort of carrying its double burden over many leagues at a frantic pace. To the marshal, it was painfully clear that his horse had almost reached its limit. But if he knew one thing about their pursuers, they needed no rest. Uruks were known for their incredible stamina, and each moment they took to give their horses a much needed break would bring their enemy closer again. There was no question that they were being followed. Whoever had been running their way in the night while Elfhelm had been dangled from the rope, occupied with keeping his friend from slipping out of the sling, would do everything in his power to recapture the king, this much was clear. Maybe their little ploy with the éored splitting up had put the enemy off-track, but Elfhelm knew better than to count on it. Still, the fact remained that their horses were in desperate need of a break, even for a few minutes.

_But who was their enemy?_

As he pulled the reins, his tired gaze swept the surrounding landscape. Since they had headed north-east on the lesser travelled paths through the White Mountains towards Helm's Deep, the terrain had become increasingly rugged and treacherous, but so far he could not make out any distinctive landmarks that would tell him how much longer they had to ride before they reached their destination. An inner voice told him not to linger here for too long – the king definitely needed to see a healer fast. Éomer had not said anything for the duration of their ride, and his slumped form in Elfhelm's arms had told the marshal that the younger man had been barely conscious enough to stay on the horse, even after they had tied him to the saddle as soon as they had gained a big enough advantage over their pursuers. The heat radiating from Éomer's still form had the marshal horribly worried and prompted him to urge his mount on, though he knew that Éon would hardly be able to go on much further at the sharp pace they had been travelling at.

Turning around in the saddle, Elfhelm only had to look at the faces of the two men accompanying him to know they were just as tired as he, but equally determined to go on. Still, there was something else written all over his scout's uncharacteristically dark-toned face, something he could not lay his finger on or name. He did not ask. The half-Dunlending would tell him as soon as he was ready to share his knowledge. In the two years the since the younger man had been assigned to his éored, Elfhelm had quickly learned to trust and even more - to depend upon the black-haired soldier with the dark, keen eyes. It had not been easy for Thor to become accepted among the traditionally suspicious Rohirrim, but through his calm, yet self-confident attitude and undeniable skills, he had won over the Lord of the Eastmark who had made it a point from early on to give the ragged young man from a devastated village at their western border a fair chance. The seasoned warrior's approval had then done the rest for Thor. None of the warriors he commanded would ever have had the mind to question their marshal's decision, so their unusual kinsman had been unanimously accepted among the warriors of the Riddermark, and by now, two years later, his ancestry was no longer an issue for any of them.

Elfhelm raised a hand as his two companions looked at him in expectation.

"The horses need a rest. Let us halt here and let them drink and graze for a moment… I also need to look at Éomer."

Careful not to knock his friend off-balance, he slid out of the saddle and they untied the king and managed to lay him down on a blanket that Findárras had quickly untied from his own horse and spread on the ground. Leaving their horses to themselves as they knew they would not run, the captain and the scout watched their commander kneel next to the freed captive and helped him lift Éomer's head to offer him water from a canteen. The unconscious man's reaction – an anguished moan, a half-finished curse and sudden jolt to the side – came unexpected. Elfhelm tried once more, but again could not pour a single swig between the firmly shut lips. With deep lines on his forehead, the marshal abandoned his initial idea and chose instead to run his hands over the younger man's body in search for injuries. At last, he pulled his dagger to slit the mud and blood-stained tunic around the shaft of the bolt to have a look at the apparently most serious wound. A tell-tale, sweet stench reached their noses and turned their faces grave.

"Sweet Eru…" Findárras muttered as he saw the angry red of Éomer's skin around the black wood. Together, they gently turned the unconscious man on his side… and saw his bloodied back. "It pierced his shoulder. If we pull it, we will only worsen the damage already done to him."

Elfhelm nodded, his mouth a drawn line. This was even worse than he had thought.

"Aye. We need to drive it through. But it _has_ to come out!" Carefully, he ran a finger over the thick wood shaft. The lines on his weathered forehead deepened. "It really sits in there…" He grasped the bolt and moved in with his dagger to cut off the black feathers … and paused to look at Éomer's face. There was no sign that the young king was anywhere near waking, so this was the right time for his grisly task. He went to work. Behind him, Thor and Findárras took in a deep breath.

"I am not sure whether it is wise to do it out here, marshal" the scout finally spoke, hesitant. "If the arrow comes out, it is likely that the wound will bleed heavily and we are not equipped to handle that. He already looks very frail to me. He needs a skilled healer, no improvised first-aid."

"All I know is that it has to come out fast! It is poisoning him! We all know what orcs to with their arrows…" Elfhelm continued, determined – until, with the last cut, the shaft suddenly fell off under the pressure, the long, splintered end clearing the wound. He cursed and picked up the broken piece to inspect it. The other end was still lodged in his friend's flesh, no longer visible. Swearing, he looked at Éomer's back in hope to be able to pull the remains of the bolt out from behind, but no sooner had he closed his fingertips around the protruding iron tip to pull, when it, too, came loose with absurd ease, also splintered. For a moment, Elfhelm just sat on the ground and stared down at the blood-encrusted tip in his hand. This was bad. On the ground, the king began to moan.

"We cannot pull it out here," his red-haired second-in-command repeated their scout's statement calmly, hoping to reach his marshal. "We need to reach the next settlement first. As far as I remember there is a woman who has a good reputation as a healer among the soldiers. She will know what to do."

Cursing, Elfhelm thrust the remainders of the bolt to the ground. His sinister gaze swept the path they had come. So far, not a sign could be detected of their enemy's presence. He turned his head to look at their horses, which were still standing by the river-bank, drinking, oblivious to their masters' plight.

"It appears that we have no choice then," he mumbled, under his breath. A brief nod in the direction of their steeds. He exhaled. "Let us give them a few more moments. They have run far this past night. And the settlement may yet lie another five or six leagues ahead. It will not help us if they collapse underneath us." The scout was not looking at him, and he did not seem to listen. Elfhelm's eyes narrowed.

"Thor?"

"Someone is coming our way…." The dark eyes scanned the horizon in the direction they were headed. The marshal and his second-in-command spun around. "Looks like four riders… and a riderless grey horse."

"Must be Hárrdras. I told him to bring Firefoot, if he could get a hold of him," the red-haired Findárras sighed in relief. "I figured that if we freed the king, the weight of the both of you would become too much for Éon to bear over a long distance." He took a deep breath. "They made it then! Praise Eru!"

"Good thinking," Elfhelm admitted, angered at himself for not thinking of it first. The riders approached, and indeed he recognised their armours, helmets and horses now, if not their faces until they had approached them and brought their steaming steeds to a stop. The oldest of them, a wiry, weathered-looking man with a long, dark-blond beard and a face that looked as exhausted as their own, addressed them.

"My lord Elfhelm, I report that your éored is already halfway on the road to Helm's Gorge. The three groups have reunited at the mouth of the gorge, as ordered, and should arrive at the village by nightfall." His eyes widened as he spotted the unmoving shape behind them. "I see you succeeded, Marshal… but how is our king faring?"

"He is alive, but he needs a healer, and fast." Elfhelm eyed the men in deep concern. They looked wearied, and one of them had blood smeared all over the right side of his face from a nasty cut on his brow. "Did all men make it back?"

Hárrdras' face darkened.

"Alas, no, my lord. The attack cost us the lives of seven men… and five more were wounded, one of them grievously. He might not make it.

"Seven!" Elfhelm paled. "Valar..." He shook his head. "These are bad tidings." A short glance at Éomer. He would spare his friend the details of his rescue if he could. Éomund's son would be devastated to hear the hefty price of his own survival. "Did you kill the warg?" It had been an elemental part of their plan, for as good as the Uruk-hai's sense of smell was, the warg's was superior, and all efforts of throwing their enemy off their track would ultimately be in vain if the orc-wolf picked up their scent through the air from leagues back. But the expression on his rider's face told the marshal that his hope had been in vain.

"I am afraid we did not succeed. We wounded it, but I cannot tell how seriously. It was still fighting when your signal came and brought down two of our men and horses alone. I fear that it may not be too badly wounded after all."

Elfhelm snorted frustration and shook his head.

"So they are very likely still on our track."

"It would be safe to assume that, aye."

His eyes went over to their horses again and Elfhelm had to fight the sudden inner urge to call them back and continue their flight immediately. '_Patience'_, he told himself. '_Let them rest a little bit_ _longer, and they will be able to go on much swifter and further.'_ His glance returned to Hárrdras.

"I assume that none of you has spotted our real enemy, the foe behind that army of Uruk-hai? For I do not believe that the Uruks attacked us of their own accord."

"I am afraid we did not, Marshal. We were not close enough to-"

"I did." Eyes turned to Thor, who had been silently following the debriefing from behind and returned their stare with an uncomfortable expression on his face.

Elfhelm furrowed his brow, not wanting to believe what he had just heard, and when he spoke, his voice sounded tense with only barely suppressed anger.

"You saw him? You recognised our enemy?"

"Aye, Marshal."

An incredulous look.

"So why did you not tell me? It is the one thing I need to know most urgently! Thor?"

The dark eyes turned to him. Yes, this was the expression he had seen on his scout's face just before they had stopped. It was one he had seen there only on very rare occasions. One that made him queasy: uncertainty. What was going on?

"It _cannot_ be." Dumbfounded silence. "I mean... it is impossible. It must have been a trick of the light as he came running towards the cliff. His face was partially in shadow, but –"

"_Who was it_?" Elfhelm felt like throttling the younger man. Why was he still waiting to deliver this vital piece of information? The scout opened his mouth for a reply, but it was another voice that answered.

"It is Wormtongue."

Éomer had been listening to the discussion for a while already while he had gradually risen from a black, bottomless pit through a stream of fragmented thoughts, images and barely hinted notions to the surface of reality, even though he was by no means certain that it was in fact reality he listened to. It sounded rather like a continuation of his perpetual nightmare – men losing their lives because of him, long-time friends putting themselves in mortal danger even though they despised the man they were doing it for...

He cringed at the prospects of having to address them, of submitting himself to their well-earned disgust by claiming their attention, but if – through his knowledge – he could prevent yet another bloodbath, he would have to do so. So he spoke, and at the same time, forced himself to open his eyes.

His sight was blurred and unfocussed, but even so, it could not be missed how much his unexpected words had startled his men as they jumped and turned around. Under different circumstances, Éomer might have found the sight amusing, but his own shame as well as the open concern in his old friend's eyes killed the impulse immediately as Elfhelm hastily took the few steps separating them and kneeled down at his side.

"Éomer! How-" The question died on his lips. It was quite obvious how the king was faring, so Elfhelm swallowed it and instead laid a hand on his shoulder to give him a reassuring squeeze. The expression on his face was one of disbelief. "_Wormtongue_?" He shook his head firmly. "Wormtongue was killed in the Shire. We have proof of that."

"What proof?" He was so hot... it was almost impossible to hold his concentration up as Éomer stared into the marshal's grey eyes. "There were only words... rumours... no body."

"Did you not say for yourself that the Halflings would not have lied to us in a matter of this importance? I thought you believed them!"

"And I still do. They did not lie – they did not know better. Gríma set it all up." His throat was dry and hurt when he spoke, and this time he accepted the water his one-time mentor offered him willingly. Exhausted, he sank back. "No, he is very much alive, Elfhelm. And he has a devious plan to avenge himself on the people of the Mark..." He closed his eyes, too weak and too ashamed of himself to keep them open. But he had to finish this, had to keep up his concentration at least long enough to share what knowledge he had. "He is breeding Uruk-hai in the Misty Mountains..." The collective gasp around him could not be overheard. A hand tested his brow, and as Éomer forced his eyes open again, he saw in Elfhelm's face that he was not being believed.

"My friend, you are delirious..." The older man shook his head in denial. "You are burning up. Surely you can no longer distinguish between-"

"I know what I saw! I know what I heard!" Éomer's hot temper flared up from out of nowhere. "For Eru's sake, I was his captive over two days, Elfhelm! I may be feverish, but I still know what I am talking of! You better start believing me – or Thor, for that matter. He saw the same! Did you not, Thor?"

"Aye..." The scout nodded, discomfort over having been caught between his marshal and his king plainly written on his face. His gaze locked on Elfhelm. "In fact, I saw him quite clearly... yet I dared not to say anything for I doubted myself. I knew how unlikely it was."

A leaden break. The seriousness of the situation began to dawn on the men as they stood in a silent circle around their king, contemplating the meaning of what they had just heard. Finally it was Elfhelm's second-in-command who ripped himself out of his stupor first to glance at the horizon the way they had come.

"I believe we should be on our way again, marshal. The horses appear to be ready to leave, and we should not abandon more of our advantage over the enemy lightly. The way still ahead of us will not be easy to travel. Not so in daylight and much less during the night." As he spoke, his eyes followed a white something from his line of vision to the ground, and he sighed inwardly. Snow. It would further complicate their flight and make it harder to wipe their traces. It was with relief when he saw Elfhelm nod.

"Aye. You are right." Still kneeling, the marshal turned to the fallen king. "I am afraid you will have to stay on horseback for a while longer yet, brother..." He seized Éomer's shoulders and was taken aback when his hand was slapped away.

"No. Leave me here."

"What?" He could not have heard that right.

"You're faster without me..." The wounded man did not open his eyes. "And I don't want to come with you."

Elfhelm gaped at his men in utter consternation and found his expression mirrored in their faces. A moment later, he shook his head, pushed aside what he had believed to have heard and gestured Findárras to help him sit the king up.

"I don't know what is going on in your mind, my friend, but if you believe that we attacked those Uruks to get you out of their grasp only to leave you lying here now, you are mistaken! You are coming with us. Findárras?" He renewed his grasp on Éomer's arm and met with resistance as they slowly pulled the king up. Suddenly, dark eyes met his in seething anger, a sight he was not prepared for.

"_Friend?_ You are calling me '_friend'_? Stop your lies, Elfhelm! At least _you_ should be honest with me. I have heard enough lies from Wormtongue already." The king turned his arm, yet could not break the men's grasp on him. "Let go of me!"

"This confirms it: You are delirious, _my friend_ – and you are coming with us, no matter what!"

Elfhelm decided he would have none of this. Even though the younger man's erratic behaviour troubled him deeply, they had no time to search for its cause. With a combined effort, the éored's two commanders brought their king up on his knees. And now Thor came to their aid, as well. Together, they put the swearing Éomer on his feet and at the grey stallion's side. Firefoot carried a saddle that was not his own and even though he was not used to having others handle him, it was almost as if he understood the situation and his master's need, for even though Hárrdras' hold on his bridle was loose, he did not stir when the men bumped into his side.

"Let go of me, Elfhelm! That is a direct order!" Éomer's strength was failing him fast, but still he fought against being lifted into the saddle.

"I am not taking orders from delirious men. – Findárras, Thor?" Together the three men wrestled the king onto the grey's back. "Now tie him to it! Make sure he stays up there!" For a moment, the marshal observed the preparations for the continuation of their flight, and when it soon became clear that his friend was in no condition to commence his unexplainable resistance, he turned and gave a sharp whistle in the direction of their horses. A moment later, his trusted Éon was at his side, and he took Firefoot's reins and tied them to the back of his saddle. "Hárrdras, you and your men lead the way. Thor, Findárras – for as long as it is possible, you ride at Éomer's side. Support him if needs be, just make sure he stays in the saddle. We need to make haste. The morning is already half-gone, and my gut tells me that the weather is going to get worse. Let's see that we reach our destination as soon as possible!" With a last glance back at a – thankfully - still empty horizon, Elfhelm urged his steed into motion again...


	17. The Demons within

**Chapter 17: The Demons Within**

* * *

"That is wonderful. Simply wonderful." Wormtongue's expression told the orcs and Dunlendings around him that it was anything but. And how could this - the sight of a dead-end - be after they had followed that trace at a frantic pace for the entire night and morning since their valuable captive had escaped? They had run over a distance of many leagues, only to stare at sheer granite rock walls now? Curse those peasants! They had outsmarted him... for now. But their triumph would not last for long.

The commander of the nightmare host turned around to face his Uruk-hai scout, and deadly malice glowed in the pale blue eyes.

"So this is where the intelligence of your species ends. I should have known better than to trust your kind with this most important of tasks!"

The creature stared back at him from its towering seven-foot frame, uncomprehending.

"They were here!"

"Yes, Gârlâk, they were. I can see that." Others would have been intimated by looking into the amber-glowing ferocious eyes, but Wormtongue was determined to stare the half-orc into submission himself. "_But where are they now?"_

He waited a moment longer to let his underling know how unsatisfactory he found his performance, and then turned on his heel to face the rest of his army, his glance coming to rest on the warg and its rider. They stood a little apart from the rest, since the great wolf was clearly agitated by the pain of three arrows sticking in its side and tore apart whatever came too close to its mighty jaws, caring little whether it was friend or foe. Its rider was clearly having a difficult time keeping his mount in check... but now Gríma needed his service. The warg's special senses must be put to good use now. He raised his voice as he addressed his army.

"Listen, my fighting Uruk-hai: The enemy is running from us. They are afraid. They chose to ridicule us with this little trick because they dared not face us openly. They dared not confront us in earnest last night, and even now they would rather play 'Hide and Seek' with us than wage open battle. They are nothing but filthy cowards. But will it ultimately save them? Can running and playing tricks save anyone from the wrath of the mighty Uruk-hai?"

"No!" A chorus of deep, throaty growls shook the narrow gorge they were standing in.

"I know you have been running since yesterday. But the enemy has been running the same distance, and they can't be far ahead. In fact, they must be very close if they had to resort to using such a desperate trick. We must be almost upon them, and I know that you possess the greater stamina, not to mention the greater strength."

"We are the fighting Uruk-hai!" the chorus roared in unison. "No one is stronger than us!"

"That is right! And I promise you now, where I stand: once we have the king back, I shall grant you the right to kill each and every man and woman who crosses our path! We were trying to be merciful to the people of Rohan, but they want our wrath. Now they shall encounter it!"

His gaze went over to the warg-rider. The orc understood what was expected of him and turned his steed around, growling a harsh command into the furry ears while he knew all to well that if he made one mistake, he could just as easily end up in the beast's stomach himself. The wolf raised its ugly head into the wind. The scent was faint, but it was there... the scent of horses... men... and blood. It was that last scent which spurred the great predator into motion...

-------------------

Hot. And cold. And hot. And cold again. A bone-chilling cold, one not even the fur-lined blanket they had wrapped around him could hold off. His teeth clattered, no matter how hard he clenched his jaw, and his shoulder was killing him. The shaft was gone, or at least the part of it that had protruded from his body, but it felt as if the main part was still embedded in his flesh. Presumably, Elfhelm had tried to draw it while he had been unconscious, and the movement had inflamed the wound anew. When would his ordeal ever end?

The answer was simple: when he died. For the first time ever, the king cursed his sturdy constitution. Presumably, others would have already surrendered to the hardships he had endured over the past two days. They would have broken their bones in the two falls he had taken; given in to the harsh autumn conditions and to Wormtongue's potions and mind-corrupting approaches… or to the poison flowing through his veins from the wound. The stench told him that it had begun to rot, and usually, once that stage was reached, it did not take long for most men to perish… yet he was _still_ here, seemingly condemned to empty the bitter cup which had been handed to him all the way to the ground. The Valar could be cruel indeed … If destiny presented him with a chance to shorten his ordeal after all, Éomer was determined to seize it without thinking twice, no matter whether Elfhelm's men would view his decision as yet another act of cowardice.

The wind shifted and blew snow into his face. It was falling plentifully now, and while it posed no problem for their advancing yet, it was clear that they would leave a broad trace for the enemy to follow – if he was close enough to see it before the snow had covered it up again. It would make the narrow mountain paths they would have to cross before the village they were headed for slippery and dangerous, and if it continued to fall for long, would ultimately render them impassable. Éomer did not fear for himself, but if yet more men were to die because of him… He swallowed and grimaced at the pain in his dry throat. Was he, on top of everything else, also coming down with a sickness now? Over the course of the last hours, he had developed a cough that frequently rattled his battered body, but had thought nothing of it. And why, really? Maybe it would speed up his passing, so it was something he rather welcomed.

Something moved on the slope to his left. Looking up from under his eyebrows, head still hanging, Éomer caught a glimpse of something whiter than even the snow dancing on the hill. Sleipnir was back! Even though the ghost horse had headed straight for the battle when the king had seen it the last time, there was not a single stain on its radiant hide, neither blood nor dirt. It looked impossibly beautiful. Such must have been the sight of Nahar, the horse of the Valar and sire of the Méara-race. A dancing, powerful, yet weightless shape of impossible grace that almost scorched his eyes. When, oh when would the stallion come for him at last?

Éomer watched for a while longer, but when it became clear that Sleipnir had no intentions to approach him yet, he shifted his attention to his own horse. His beloved Firefoot had not become Gríma Wormtongue's marching provision after all. While he felt immensely relieved in that regard, it also dawned on the king that his foe had lied to him.

_What else had he lied about?_

Too weary to follow the discomforting thought, Éomer turned his thoughts once again to his horse. As it seemed, the animal was the only friend left to him, but of course the responsibility for his unlucky situation lay entirely within his own hands. The grey had followed him all the way from the Méara-valley to the Westfold, and while the strong bond between a Rohir and his horse was commonly known among the people of the Mark, Firefoot's demonstration of just how strong that bond could be warmed Éomer's heart. He would have liked to touch the stallion's neck, but they had tied his hands to the pommel of his saddle.

'_Just like Gríma,' _he thought, embittered. Another voice in his head insisted they had simply done it to prevent him from falling, but he did not listen to it as he stared at the blurred shape of his former friend who was riding in front of him. '_You would not follow my orders when I asked to be left behind, and instead put me through the indignity of first lifting me onto the saddle and then tying me to it. What else are you planning to humiliate me, Elfhelm? Are you enjoying yourself, old friend?'_

"Éomer? My lord?" The voice came from the right. They had noticed he was awake. Bad. He did not long for their attention… nor for their pity. Pity was the last thing he ever wanted. Pity and shame were two things closely connected to each other. One had to work to earn the jealousy of others, but pity came free and usually originated from the fact that one had failed to look after oneself. Pity was the result of ineptitude. He wanted none of it. So he ignored the scout and his question whether he wanted something to drink. Better to ignore them all, all the more since their display of compassion was nothing more than a blatant lie. If Elfhelm let them, that expression would disappear from their faces faster than Shadowfax could run. There was no doubt in his heart that the men he had once believed to be loyal to him would sooner spit in his face than help him if it weren't for the fact that he was still their king.

A cold gust, its force increased by the narrow gorge they were travelling through, nearly unseated Éomer. His strength was waning, the effect of Wormtongues potion almost gone. Thanks to Elfhelm, he could not fall… but when they reached the pass and looked down onto the rocky terrain below in the slowly fading daylight with their destination barely visible on the horizon, Éomer's vision caved in once again and he sank onto his steed's neck…

-------------------

"Éomer? Éomer, can you hear me?" A pause. The notion of hands seizing him from both sides. He grunted, unwillingly. Why couldn't they just let him sleep? "Careful, Findárras. Thor, cut the ties."

"Aye."

They had stopped. There were voices all around him now – men, women, children even, shouting and whispering. Dogs barking. He heard his name several times, yet could not follow what they were saying about him. Although… he cared not.

"Slowly now. We must not let him fall."

"What has happened to him?"

"Later. We must first get him safely into the hut. Have you found the healer yet?"

"She is already in there, tending to the men that were wounded in the attack. They arrived shortly before us."

"Good. – Thor, now let go… slowly!"

They were pulling him off the saddle. So they had indeed reached their destination, wherever it was that Elfhelm had wanted to go. Following a sudden impulse, Éomer opened his eyes – to twilight. But something was sparkling in the grey light, and while he was gliding towards it, it became clear to him that it was the elaborately worked hilt of the marshal's dagger. A dagger! A sudden surge of adrenaline flooded his veins. A moment later, his feet touched the ground and he doubled over, held by Elfhelm's strong arms – and went for the steel blade, had it drawn from its sheath and turned on himself before his former friend could react.

"Éomer!"

Shouts and shrieks from all around him as he pushed the dagger against his stomach with violent force. Rough, hard hands closed around his and turned the blade upwards at the last moment, and the steel cut through his tunic without breaking the skin.

"Éomer, no! Are you mad? Let go!" the older man roared into his ear, fingers still closed around his hands in a desperate attempt to wrestle the dagger from him. "What are you doing?"

The king fought with fierce determination, but had no strength left, and now even more hands seized him and held his arms.

"Take your hands off me, all of you! That is an order!" There was not even enough breath left in him to shout. He pushed again, but was no match for Elfhelm's brute strength, all the more as he was basically fighting one-handedly. As his knees started to buckle from exhaustion, Éomer had to admit that there was nothing left in him to win this fight.

"I told you before that I do not accept orders from a man who is not in possession of his right mind," the older man said matter-of-factly. "Now let go, my friend!"

The dagger was unceremoniously wrenched from his fingers with one final tug. Éomer felt like crying out in despair. This had been his one chance at ending it… and he had failed. As it looked, Elfhelm was determined to make him suffer all the way to the end. Curse him!

"Stop calling me that," the king somehow managed to mutter through his tightening, hurting throat. "If you still were, you would let me end it. Although I cannot blame you for feeling this way." He sagged and felt the support of strong hands under his shoulders. They half-carried, half-dragged him into the healer's hut, a large, sparsely decorated wooden structure with a nauseating mixed smell of blood, sweat, smoke and herbs deeply set in the wood.

"I am afraid I do not understand a word you're saying," the marshal responded, sounding thoroughly bewildered. "Why wouldn't we be friends anymore?" They came to a stop in front of a bed. "Careful now! Just let yourself fall, we will hold you. That is good." Éomer's legs were lifted, and someone pulled off his boots before they turned him around on the mattress and carefully laid him down. The short way from his horse to the bed had left him utterly spent and on the brink of unconsciousness again, and for a moment, he was unable to speak.

Elfhelm granted himself a few deep breaths before he addressed his second-in-command, his eyes still on the wounded king. This whole business was getting stranger by the second, Éomer's behaviour nothing short of a complete mystery to him. Just what had happened to his long-time friend that he had tried to kill himself? He would have to find out.

"Findárras, go and seek the settlement's captain. Have him send us a smith to rid him of these accursed ties on his neck and wrists. Then tell him to organise the evacuation of the village. Assist him in any way that you can. I want every man, woman and child to leave the village within the next hour. Tell them to take only what provisions they can carry and head north, as far towards Fangorn as they can. We will draw Wormtongue away from them, but it will still be better if they are not within his reach. Also tell them to set loose their stock. I don't know what Gríma plans, but let's not provide easy targets for his Uruks. If they are in haste to follow us, they will not have the time to go hunting for the animals. Maybe they will spare the stock this way. Arnhelm, see that our horses are tended to. They shall have whatever break we can grant them, even if it won't be for long. Let the men feed them, rub them dry and take their saddles down. It will be more work to saddle them again, but we owe them this much."

"Aye, my lord."

"What about the settlement's éored?" Findárras inquired. "We could use the reinforcements, even if they can only provide twenty men."

"Ten of them shall accompany us then. The others will be needed to ensure the people's safety. We cannot let them run through half of the Westfold without protection." Another pause.

"Aye. Anything else?"

There was so much to think of and so little time!

"Who will be watching the fires?"

Thor raised his hand.

"I will, my lord." He cast an uncertain glance at Éomer. "Unless you want me for some other errand..."

"No. I will be calmer if I know that you are out there. After the first fire is lit, I estimate that we have about two hours to disappear. But we have to make sure that we see it as soon as it's lit."

"Trust in me, Marshal. You shall know at once."

"Thank you, Thor." The scout gave him a small nod and went about his way. Elfhelm turned to the other man who was still waiting for his dismissal. "Findárras, I will be staying at the king's side, so you know where to find me if anything needs my attention. I have a feeling that my presence here will be needed before long... and I still have to find out what that snake Wormtongue has done to him. I fear that Éomer's strange behaviour has been caused by some foul trick of his. Maybe I can be of help." A grim nod. His second-in-command returned it curtly and left.

With a deep breath and briefly wondering whether he had forgotten something important that could prove vital later, the marshal turned around to look down on the young king, expecting him to have passed out from the efforts the day had held for him. But he hadn't. In fact, Éomund's son was looking at him with a brooding, gloomy expression he had so far only seen directed at others.

"Why are you doing this to me, Elfhelm? Why are you putting me through this?"

It sounded as if Éomund's son had barely strength left to utter these words, for he was hardly whispering loud enough for his voice to reach the marshal's ears. Together with the drawn expression and deep lines on his face that told of his pain, it was enough to wrench the seasoned warrior's gut.

"Eru knows I deserve it, but…I already am dishonoured. I am filth, and I admit it. What else do you want? Vengeance? Is this not enough vengeance for you? Is it your intention to humiliate me further by making me confess my crime out loud?"

The king was undoubtedly delirious, yet his speech took the older warrior aback. Before the marshal could even think of a reply though, a slightly bowed, thin woman stepped up to them. She was walking with a barely noticeable limp and was wearing brown, woollen rags that had several fresh-looking blood-stains on them. Her weathered face looked wrinkled and aged and bore an uncanny resemblance to old leather. Elfhelm estimated that she had seen at least 60 summers, but it could just as easily have been 70. The healer? He had only visited this particular settlement once before, and the incident lay years back. He could not remember anymore. But if his second-in-command said that this woman had a good reputation, he knew he could trust the information. A scrutinising glance from deep blue eyes found him, and a bony hand was extended to him in greeting. He seized it, even if he was unaccustomed to this particular form of courtesy.

"Marshal Elfhelm! What can I do for you? Unfortunately, your visit comes quite unexpected for us. You must forgive me for the delay in tending to your men. I wished we would have had a warning." She looked more closely at Éomer. "You brought another one?"

"Are you the woman they call Sarabande?" She nodded, but was already bowing over the king to tug at the torn tunic around his shoulder. Elfhelm grasped her arm and turned her around to face him. His voice was dripping intensity. "Then listen well, Sarabande: You never had a more important patient than this man!"

"_Elfhelm, no!"_

The marshal cut Éomer's injection short with an impatient gesture. He would have his say, king or not!

"This is King Éomer of Rohan." The woman's eyes widened slightly and once again trailed off to the man on the bed, a reaction Elfhelm found satisfactory. He had her undivided attention now. "He was gravely wounded in a fight two days ago, and there is still a large piece of an orc-arrow lodged in his shoulder. We need to get it out at once, and he will need to be moved again by moonrise at the latest, for our enemies are still on our tracks. I expect you to treat this patient with the utmost priority."

The old woman neither flinched nor seemed overly intimidated by her high guest as she briefly gave her ruler an acknowledging nod and an only hinted at bow and then met the marshal's intensive stare again. Out here in the Westmark, where assaults of rampant Dunlending forces were a firm ingredient of everyday life, she had grown accustomed to being barked at by high-ranking Rohirrim officers. She knew that the rough tone often employed when they were issuing their orders was nothing but a reflection of the men's concern, so she had stopped taking offence a long time ago and simply concentrated on her task. Laying a hand onto Éomer's glowing forehead, she waited a few moments before she finally answered.

"I shall see what I can do, my lord. Although I do not know about moving him so soon after the treatment." A scrutinising glance later she continued, this time addressing the king directly: "Forgive me for stating the obvious, my lord, but you look very weak to me already, and your condition will not have improved after having that arrow dug out of your shoulder." She opened the cut Elfhelm had made in Éomer's tunic to peer at the wound, and the lines on her face deepened in concern. "Your wound appears to be badly infected, and you are also running a high fever. Even if the weather were not worsening as it is, I honestly do not think that what Marshal Elfhelm has in mind would be in your best interest."

"Have you not heard me, woman? The enemy is still on our track!" Elfhelm interrupted her crisply. The woman did not seem to understand the situation. "There is no other way. I am loath to put him on a saddle in his condition as well, but a wagon would be too slow."

Sarabande straightened and nodded thoughtfully as she retracted her hand and cut her eyes to the back of the long hut again. She exhaled and let the man in front of her know that way that she was still harbouring doubts.

"It is your decision, my Lord Marshal.… but before I can treat him, I will have to look at one of your men they brought in shortly before you came. He might die if we do not give him all the help we are capable of – immediately."

A shadow fell onto Elfhelm's face, but before he could answer, Éomer cut him off, the first words the king directed at the healer.

"Tend to him first."

The marshal turned around.

"Éomer-"

"_I said_, tend to him, first!" Éomer locked eyes with his former friend in a silent battle of wills. Beads off sweat ran down his face, but he did not shrink from his opposite's piercing stare. His tone was quiet, yet firm enough to drive his point home and cut the discussion short. "It is my will. Marshal Elfhelm has no authority in my presence." He did not acknowledge the woman's presence by a single glance and only saw her shrug from out of the corners of his eyes. Then his attention was briefly diverted from his marshal as a radiantly white shape passed behind the open door, temporarily lighting up the twilight of the fading day. He knew who had come…

"If that is indeed your will, sire, I shall go now." Sarabande bowed to him and then addressed Elfhelm again. "While I am gone, it would be most helpful if you could remove his tunic. I will send someone to wash him. He needs to be clean before I can do anything." With a reassuring nod, she turned to go, briefly touching Elfhelm's hand. "Be assured that I will not take very long before I return. But we need to prepare him for the procedure first, which is a task that can be done by someone else me, and since your other kinsman is in dire need of help as well, I will not have to waste precious moments that could save his life."

Grinding his teeth but having to admit the healer was right, Elfhelm dismissed her with a curt nod.

"I understand."

She left, and for a few thoughtful moments, the Lord of the Eastmark watched her retreat into the back of the hut, his pensive gaze sweeping the beds that were temporarily occupied by most of his men wounded in the attack. He sighed and finally turned back to his former apprentice, wearing a deep frown on his broad, bearded face.

"I cannot say that I understand you, Éomer." Somewhere further back in the long hut, a man was crying out in agony, and Elfhelm's stomach twisted into a knot as he recognised the voice of the young man who had been riding with him only for a brief time. Shaking his head in helpless frustration, he finally forced himself to turn his back on the gruesome proceedings and concentrate on his estranged friend. "Your wound is already rotting. Each moment that it poisons you could be one too many. You know very well how bad it is. Is it your intention to die?"

Dark eyes met his, and while the feverish glint in them was unmistakable, there was also rock-hard determination written in them. At least some part of the Éomer he knew was still there, but not enough to make the marshal feel at ease. He braced for his precarious task and inhaled when the king finally spoke.

"It is my intention not to have another man die because of me. There has been too much death already on my account." Éomer coughed and had to pause to catch his breath, and in doing so, turned his head sideways and took in his surroundings in all their depressing detail. The simple wooden bed next to him was empty, but there was a large, dark, not at all encouraging stain on the mattress, and further back the king could see the healer's helpers tending to Elfhelm's wounded men, washing off blood with steaming cloths, sewing shut nasty gashes and dressing wounds. Éomer swallowed visibly and felt his voice getting caught up in his throat as he whispered: "So much death... and pain…"

His voice trailed off as Gríma's voice recounted his crimes in the back of his head, and his gaze came to rest on the leather restraints fastened to the head-end of the bed. As an experienced warrior, he had had arrows drawn from his flesh twice before and knew what the ties were used for. There were ties for his ankles, too. They would fasten them before they would begin, and still they would presumably need at least two strong men to hold him down while they were digging into his flesh with their instruments. They would stuff a cloth or a thick piece of leather into his mouth to give him something to bite down on, and then…

With a mighty effort, Éomer pushed the image behind his eyes back into the back of his mind. He would not think about the procedure now. It would become reality soon enough for him, what need was there to torture himself with these thoughts beforehand? But the effort was ill-fated when another cry rang out from the back of the hut. It brought back the memory of the exquisite pain in all clarity, and Éomer already dreaded to imagine what the procedure would feel like this time. To distract himself from his gloomy thoughts, the young king finally decided to cut his eyes back to his mentor who, in the meantime, had sat down on the foot of his bed. Where was the point in going through this agony?

'_Do you want to die?'_

"You want an answer, Elfhelm? An honest answer?" Dark grey eyes turned to him expectantly. "Aye, I want for it to end. The sooner the better." He saw the mighty warrior blink in consternation.

"I cannot believe I am hearing these words come from your mouth." Elfhelm felt as if he had been hit in the gut by a battering ram. Éomer, who had always been the ultimate warrior, never ready to give up and surrender...wanting to die? Frantically, he searched for the right words, but nothing came to him.

"Leave me be, Elfhelm. I do not want your help. I cannot and I _will not_ allow you to risk your life and the lives of your men for a man you justly despise."

"_I despise you_? Whoever told you that?" The bewildered expression on Elfhelm's face and his raised brows were almost comical, but Éomer did not care to listen to his interjection as he continued. He would only have the strength to go through this once, so he had better make it fast.

"Rohan is in dire need of men like you. Men loyal to their kin... men our people can trust in and look up to in times of need... Maybe they will even make you their next king, for I could hardly think of a man who would be better suited for the task. – As for me… I deserve what destiny has dealt me. I am content now with paying the price for my sins."

The grey eyes in front of him narrowed in utter confusion.

"And what exactly _would_ your sins be, son?"

"You know that perfectly well, Elfhelm." Éomer mirrored his expression, only that it was glowering anger that sparkled in the deep brown. "Why are you still asking? Because you want to make this even harder for me?"

"Because I _do not know_!"

"Aye, you have forgotten, have you?" the king spat, restraint and understanding forgotten, for he did not want to believe what his former friend was putting him through. "You don't remember that Midsummer Ceremony at Iséndras from two years back... and what happened afterwards!"

"Iséndras?" the Lord of the Eastmark rebuked, incredulous. Just where was Éomer receiving all these delusions? He shook his head with grim determination. "We have never been to Iséndras for the Midsummer Celebration! We always went to Aldburg that day, as befitting the Third Marshal and his entourage. The Westmark is Erkenbrand's realm, not ours. It is _his_ responsibility to show himself to the people that look up to him; it was _ours_ to represent Théoden's power in the eastern part of the Mark. I cannot believe I should have to remind you of that!" No reply. "Théodred was with us that day, too! We stayed at your former home and went to the bonfires when the night came, and I challenged the two of you to a drinking contest and won! I was even laughing at you and saying something in the likes of '_the_ _youths not being used to Rohirric traditions anymore'_ and what disgrace you and the king's son were to us hard-drinking Éorlingas! And I was laughing even harder when you took offence at that and tried to stand up to fight me – only to fall flat on your face! You were so drunk you didn't even bother to get up and fell asleep on the spot! Maybe that is why you cannot remember anymore!"

"I remember quite clearly, Elfhelm, that is the problem_!" Those grey eyes, silently cursing him for what he was about to do. Cursing him for what he had done the morning after, again wordlessly, but making sure that their message was being understood_. "I see your face before me, the way you looked at me when I told you to summon that woman to my tent… You were disgusted, and it was justified!"

"In Aldburg? You were not staying in a tent in Aldburg, and there were no women in your home, either! Valar, you did not even make it home that night, you were too far gone! I had tried to set you up with two women who were battling over your attention the entire night, and you passed out right there at the fireplace! _That_ is what happened at Midsummer two years ago! Even if you don't recall the occasion, I do, because it was probably the only happy memory I have from that time before war came upon us again! If you feel that this is something to be ashamed of, so be it, but killing yourself over it and leaving Rohan without a king would clearly be an extreme reaction... and quite irresponsible of you!"

"You think that this is the right time for jesting?" Éomer sneered, seething with red-hot anger. Why was Elfhelm doing this to him? The big man shrugged and just as quickly discarded his attempt to playfully coerce the king into sharing the truth about what was ailing him when he saw the intense rage in the dark, pained eyes.

"I thought the incident was something to be amused by, aye. But I wasn't jesting. I still don't understand--"

"Again, I was not talking about what happened in Aldburg."

"Then tell me _what_ you were talking about, for I still cannot follow you! Maybe you need to hear it once again: _We never went to Iséndras for Midsummer, and certainly not two years ago_! I remember that celebration very clearly, son, and I am certain that if you start thinking about it, you will realise that I am speaking the truth." Elfhelm paused and took a deep, deliberate breath while he waited to detect a sign in the king's expression that he indeed did think on his words. He also lowered his voice again as he was becoming aware of people turning their heads y further back in the hut. "That woman that you said you supposedly ordered me to summon to your tent..."

"Not '_supposedly_', Elfhelm," snapped Éomer, growing insecurity making his tone even sharper now. Nothing was adding up. There were pictures in his mind of the incident the marshal had described. He even remembered having been severely hung-over the next day, even though he was anything but untrained when it came to Rohirric drinking rituals. Stubbornly he insisted: "It happened!"

"_What _happened?"

The big question. Was he man enough to say it? To admit it out loud? But Elfhelm knew already, so what was the point in getting choked up over his devious deed? Still, Éomer could not bear to look his older friend in the eye as he finally said the words. They tasted bitter on his lips, and they felt wrong.

_So much blood! Her blood! Her wide, blue eyes, glazed with horror and shock, staring at him. Crimson rivulets on porcelain skin. Delicate fingers touching her split lip... Valar, what had he done...!_

"I- I forced myself on her." He swallowed. "And I struck her… I- I hurt her quite badly and I don't know what--" To his surprise and, at first, intense anger, Elfhelm would not even let him finish his confession before he interrupted.

"Well, _I know_ what: Gríma Wormtongue is '_what'_." The marshal snorted in disgust. "I assume he gave you food while you were his prisoner? He did not starve you, did he?"

"I did not eat."

"But you drank."

"Yes, but--"

Finally, it all was becoming clear! Immensely relieved, Elfhelm ran a hand through his tangled hair and sighed with relief. So there was the explanation! He should have been able to guess earlier. When he shook his head this time, it was with great conviction.

"No, my friend, there is no '_but'_. The filth poisoned you. He made you drink one of his vile potions and whispered his venom into your ears, just as he did with King Théoden. Valar, Éomer, we both spent years trying to fight Wormtongue's influence over your uncle! Do you think he would have believed Gríma's accusations and banished you if his mind had not been corrupted by that snake's evil sorcery? You know as well as I do how Gríma had been telling him nothing but lies! And it is beyond me how – as someone who has witnessed first-hand what happened to your uncle - you should be willing to believe this scum now that you are in the same place! To believe your greatest enemy – rather than an old friend?"

Finally, a first hint of insecurity on the king's face! Confusion over the logic of his words. He was beginning to get through! But it was not enough yet. Éomer's mouth worked as he tried to make sense of what Elfhelm had told him. Of the clashing images in his mind. Of the bonfires, of Théodred laughing into his ear over a dirty joke – and the sweet taste of wine from Théandran's lips before she fought back.

"But – I remember it as if it happened yesterday! I can even _smell_ her!" No more anger in his voice. Nothing but utter confusion was left.

'_What is your name, woman? – Théandran, my lord...'_

Elfhelm's big hand closed around his good shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. The scarred face hoverering above him conveyed nothing but utter sincerity.

"Trust me, my friend, _had_ you attempted anything like this, I _would _have stopped you. I would not have brought you that woman and turned away, paying no heed to the consequence. I would have had some serious words with you to bring you to your senses… if it had been necessary. But _you_... and forcing yourself on a woman..." He felt the insane urge to laugh into Éomer's face - the idea seemed too bizarre – but he suppressed it. This was hardly the appropriate reaction."In the past, you beheaded two men yourself for just that crime. Do you remember?" The younger man's face said he did. "You never showed anyone mercy who was guilty of that act. Violence against those who could not defend themselves was the crime that always brought out the worst in you. And now you believe you would have stained your own honour in that manner? It is madness, Éomer!"

Silence. The expression of self-loathing and shame in his friend's eyes had melted away and been replaced by a deep thoughtfulness. There was still uncertainty... but also thankfulness... and hope. A faint spark only, but one that Elfhelm was determined to nourish. He cleared his throat.

"Listen, Éomer... even if you do not believe anything else that I've said, believe me _now_ when I swear that in all these years that we've ridden together, I have never seen you do anything that would have met with my disapproval… and you, of all the men I have been riding with, know best that I am a man of strong principles!"

The battle was won. Elfhelm could tell that – even though there was still a last shadow of doubt in his friend's heart – he had chased away the demon that had been planted into Éomer's mind by their old, common foe. The expression on the king's face spoke more clearly than a thousand words: An exhausted, very weary, but unmistakable smile. Only a shadow, really, but it made Elfhelm's heart beat faster with joy.

"Aye... that you are, Marshal Elfhelm." Another coughing fit, but when it abated, the slight smile was still there. "When I was but a boy, your men used to call you their '_high judge_' because your wrath would be horrible whenever you found a man not performing his duty

Yes! More of the '_real' _Éomer. Elfhelm returned the smile, relishing the sweet taste of one of the most important victories he had ever achieved. He had saved his friend's mind; now they had to ensure that his body would endure, a battle in which he could not assist the young king, as much as he wanted to. His only help in this matter of life and death had to be to give moral support – and revive Éomer's fighting spirit. The great warrior was certain that once his friend truly _wanted_ to live again, he would win this battle. It was common knowledge among the Rohirrim that once their former Third Marshal and now king had set his mind to something, he was apt to plough through granite walls to achieve it.

'_I hope we meet again, Gríma! If we do, I shall wring your filthy neck for doing this to Éomund's son!'_ In spite of his usually stiff and always controlled bearing, the marshal patted the wounded man's hand before he leant back.

"Aye, son, that sounds like a fitting name for me indeed… Believe me, you did none of the things that Wormtongue accused you of. He must have used his potions to plant them into your head."

Éomer was looking straight through Elfhelm as he recalled his conversations with the evil counsellor on their way to the doomed village. His voice had a faraway, dreamlike quality as he recounted his captor's accusations.

"He told me that my men loathed me. That I only made it through the ranks because of my ancestry and kinship with Théoden…" His eyes focussed again. "And he said that the people of Rohan feared me... that my reputation among them was that of a ruthless and greedy man." He could not bring himself to tell his old friend Wormtongue's words about his crimes he had committed against Éowyn. For all the lies his captor might have told him for two days, the accusations concerning his sister still had a ring to them that sounded true.

The older man was taken aback by his words.

"For Éorl's sake, Éomer, your people and your men love you! How can you doubt that even for a moment? Forget what that snake said. There is notliving soul in all of Rohan who would not crawl on hands and knees through the plains of Gorgoroth and back for you, even if the Dark Lord's army were still there and torturing them every step of the way!"

He raised his head as a slender, young woman approached them with a bucket full of steaming hot water smelling of fresh of herbs. Elfhelm held out his hand to turn her around and make her face him as she stopped next to the king's bed. "What is your name, woman?"

"Árdwyne, my lord."

"Árdwyne, what do you think of our king? I order you to speak openly and freely, as the king demands to hear an honest answer from his people."

"Elfhelm-"

"Árdwyne?"

"My Lord…" she bit her lip, clearly intimidated by the marshal's intensive stance and also feeling Éomer's eyes on her as she turned to him. It was an awkward situation. What to say? A hundred possible beginnings went through her head before she finally chose to keep her reply brief and simple. "I can only speak for those I know, the people of this village and our neighbours, but... I know of nobody who speaks without the greatest respect of our king. The people of the Westfold love you and there was great joy when we heard tidings of you succeeding King Théoden. Just like the Lord Erkenbrand and the king's son, you made us ever feel protected and listened to, even in those times when you were still the Third Marshal. We know that you and your men constantly risk your lives in protection of us commoners, and it is something that we have not the words to thank you enough for. 'tis is the truth, my lord." She bowed and turned her gaze to the ground, her face turning crimson with abashment. A moment of silence ensued.

"Thank you, Árdwyne. Those were beautiful words." Elfhelm raised his chin and looked down on Éomer in challenge. "Will this do, son, or shall I go and summon each and every of our kinsmen to this bed to tell you more of the same?" He would not have to; he could read the certainty in the younger man's softened expression even before Eomer gave the tiniest nod of appreciation to the woman, too moved to speak. Elfhelm took a deep breath. The wave of relief that suddenly washed over him was almost painful. The woman's passionate confession had been the last straw. His friend was back. Now he had to endure. Having a goal would help him walk the rocky road that lay still ahead of him. "You will have to promise me that you will fight now, son."

Another ghost of a smile.

"Don't worry, old friend."

"You want to see Gríma brought to justice, won't you? You want him to bleed for all the evil he has done! Valar, _I _want to see him bleed for it, too! You owe it to Rohan, Éomer! You owe it to us as our king - you can't let this filth triumph over you."

"I won't."

Elfhelm liked the sparkle in Éomer's eyes. He knew its meaning, had seen it often enough. Whenever that sparkle was directed at another person, that person was in trouble. Whenever it was lit by a difficult and challenging task, the task could be considered done. Éomer's will was back. Elfhelm nodded grimly, the hand resting on his friend's leg giving him a reassuring pat.

"That is the spirit, my friend."

"Excuse me, my lords..." Árdwyne had been silently waiting at Éomer's bedside and was now lifting up the bucket she had carried. "I am sorry, but the Lady Sarabande will be here shortly, and I have yet to fulfil my task." She cleared her throat before she addressed the king. "I have come to wash you, my lord." A side-glance at the marshal. "Please, my Lord Marshal, if you could assist me?" She held up a cloth and looked at Elfhelm in silent question. Elfhelm nodded and drew his dagger.

"I assume you will have new clothes for him once you are done and I don't have to be careful cutting these disgraceful rags off him?"

"Aye, my lord. The lady will bring them when she returns." She turned to Éomer while the older man began to cut through the dirt-stained and ripped leather tunic. "I am sorry, Sire, but it would not do you any good if she had to open that wound further and afterwards put those dirty clothes on you again."

"I understand…" Éomer was not certain whether his attempt at a smile came through, when his attention was suddenly claimed by the sound of ripping leather as Elfhelm tore the last parts of his tunic apart with his bare hands, and he hissed at the sudden movement. A cold draught hit his heated skin and caused his flesh to crawl.

"Sweet Eru…" the marshal's broad face contorted to a deep frown as he eyed the black and purple bruises that marred the younger man's body from the collarbone all the way down to his hips. "What did that snake do to you?" He bent forward to examine a particularly dark, hoof-shaped bruise on the king's side as the healer's assistant pulled a chair close to sit on and went to work.

"I fell under Firefoot. It was not Gríma." Éomer closed his eyes and relished the sensation of the warm water running from his brow down to his chin. Somewhere further behind in the hut, the man cried out again, and he turned his head to look, but found his view blocked by too many people. Deep lines of concern appeared on his forehead. "Who is that back there? The man they are tending to?"

"Bergon. You don't know him. He just moved to the éored two months ago."

"What happened to him?" Silence. Obviously Elfhelm did not want to tell him. Fine. There was someone else he could ask. The young woman was done cleansing his face and was just dabbing carefully at the gash on his brow when he sought her attention. "If you know, tell me, Árdwyne."

She inhaled deeply. She had not wanted to tell for fear that the bad tidings would further weaken the king's spirit. But what was she supposed to do when she was asked directly?

"He… he took an arrow to the stomach, my lord. I am afraid it is not looking good. Sarabande is doing what she can, but…" She shrugged. "Some injuries are beyond even our healing skills." Her throat tightened, and she coughed to clear it while she put the dry cloth down and took the wet one from the still steaming bucket again to start on his neck and shoulders. Éomer fell silent. That man – Bergon – was dying over there. For him. The knowledge put a bitter taste in his mouth now that he was actually close enough to witness the horrible results of Elfhelm's attack. As it seemed, his friend had bought his life with the lives of his men… Was the life of a king worth the lives of eight soldiers... and most of the men at that doomed village? Was _he_ worth it? Elfhelm said he was. Could all the images in front of his inner eyes in fact be the creation of the Wormtongue? But how could this be? He had _seen _the woman at Iséndras, and the villagers' hate for him. How could all have been an illusion?

The hot cloth arrived at the region around his bad shoulder, and he tensed. She noticed, and – if possible – her touch became even lighter, almost weightless.

"I am sorry, my lord... but it has to be done."

"Aye, I know. Go ahead. Pay me no heed." He turned his head to look at her. She had a plain, unremarkable face and tangled ashen hair that was bound in a tight braid. She was neither pretty nor ugly. Someone who – given her also quiet nature - would be easy to overlook under different circumstances. But here, from up close, in the middle of fulfilling her task, in the middle of helping people, there was a soft, magical glow to Árdwyne's face that made her beautiful in a different way. There was comfort in her presence. He was in good hands...


	18. A Decision

**Chapter 18: A Decision**

* * *

The snow was falling in frightening masses from the starless sky. Thor furrowed his brow as he looked back the way they had come earlier, his fingers subconsciously working the collar of his heavy fur-lined cloak to tighten it around his neck. It was cold, and the wind was further picking up. It was no storm yet, but it would soon become one. No weather to make for the narrow mountain path to Helm's Deep, least of all by night. It was a little-known shortcut that – if they managed to get through – would put them almost a day ahead of their enemy as opposed to taking the much longer way on the Great East-West road across the plains. It was treacherous though, and now that the snow was accumulating on the slopes, they would not only have to worry about their enemy coming from behind, but also about avalanches.

The scout's keen, watchful eyes cut back to the distant glow on the horizon, back the way they had come. He had sent a messenger to the healer's hut a short while ago with the news that the first fire had been lit. The enemy was indeed still approaching, even under these horrendous conditions. Wormtongue had to be desperate to come for them in the middle of the night. But of course he was. If his valuable prisoner was lost to him and the secret of Rohan's uninvited guest spilled across the Mark, the late King Théoden's false counsellor would be hunted for the rest of his lowly, miserable life wherever the slightest rumour of his appearance surfaced. No, his only chance was to follow them and – if possible – kill them all, every single man of Marshal Elfhelm's éored. Although… a man as cunning as Gálmód's son also had to know that there would have been messengers deployed already, which had to be halfway on the way to Edoras with the tidings of his survival. Or was he assuming that Elfhelm would keep his men together, hoping that those one or two additional men would make the difference in battle if he would not send them away? Who knew what went on inside that human demon's twisted mind? He and his army were marching towards them, that – in Thor's opinion – was all he needed to know for now.

His preoccupation was broken when he heard the crunching of snow under heavy boots from below and then someone ascending the wooden ladder to his watchtower. A broad, darkly-clad figure entered the platform, breathing heavily as he stepped up to the waiting scout who acknowledged his superior's presence with a curt nod. There was one big question on his weathered, tanned face as he faced the marshal, scanning the man's gloomy expression. He did not like it… not at all.

"How is Éomer?"

The larger man took the last step that separated them and placed his gloved hands on the wooden rail to gaze broodingly at the distant fire, his thoughts clearly still back in the hut. A thick, sharp scent of herbs emitted from him into the chilly late-autumn air.

"He is resting now…" Elfhelm inhaled deeply and fought to keep the images he had witnessed over the course of the last hour from consuming his concentration. He could not afford to lose focus now. The situation was still desperate. His kinsman had learned long ago to read his superior's moods and knew what the older man's unusual quietness meant. Carefully, he inquired further, his eyes following the marshal's gaze even if there was nothing new to see, his voice lowered in concern.

"Where they able to pull it out?"

"Aye…" Elfhelm bit his lower lip and then turned to Thor with a deep sigh. The tired and worried expression in his dark grey eyes spoke louder than words. "But it was hard for Éomer. The shaft was splintered into several pieces inside his shoulder when it punched through the bone." His opposite grimaced. "The healer is certain that she found all the pieces, but… he is very weak now. The procedure was very painful, and he lost a lot of blood." The marshal's gaze went back to the faint flickering on the horizon as he shook his head helplessly. "I truly do not know what to do, Thor. I am at a loss. I have always been able to improvise even under the worst conditions, but... I cannot for the life in me imagine him on a horse in an hour… if we have an hour left, that is." A silent question stood in his eyes. The scout pursed his lips pensively and took his time to consider his answer while he watched the snowflakes melt on the older man's eyebrows. Finally he spoke.

"The fire was lit a good while ago. We should not wait much longer, especially under these conditions." He nodded at the thickly falling snow. "The Uruk-hai will have a better grip in this terrain than our horses. I do not know how exhausted they are, but I think it is safe to assume that they are still advancing faster than we want them to... and I am not certain at all whether we should attempt to cross this mountain path… the rocks will be covered with ice, and there is of course the danger of avalanches to consider. In my opinion, we would stand a better chance at staying ahead of them on the plains... without risking as much."

"The storm will be devastating on the plains," Elfhelm objected firmly. He knew those late autumn bouts all too well. "And our horses are exhausted. We are exhausted! And I just told you about Éomer. The healer is not even certain yet that he will survive, and if we expose him to these conditions any longer than we absolutely have to…" He did not end the sentence, but it was not necessary, for his kinsmen understood him quite clearly. The dark eyes widened in dismay.

"She is not even certain of _that_?"

"No."

Again the distant echo of Éomer's anguished cries rang in his ears, muffled by the piece of leather he was biting almost through in agony. The veins on his temples and the neck-muscles standing out from the effort, his whole body rigid to the breaking point from fighting against the pain, face contorted and eyes squeezed shut. Crimson rivulets running down his bare, sweat-beaded chest and ending in a red delta on the blanket he was lying on, soaking it. His desperate attempts to wrench his bad arm from his friend's hold while the healer buried her instruments in his shoulder. Fighting so hard in fact that they had to call another man to help hold him down in spite of the fastened restraints, astonishing, given Éomer's weakened condition. And he had fought like that for an eternity, or at least it had seemed like one to Elfhelm. So long had the younger man refused to pass out that at one point Elfhelm even considered knocking his friend unconscious to lessen his suffering, and it was only just before he decided to act on his idea that Éomer's body finally slackened under him, much to the relief of the people tending to him.

The rest had been easier, but still distressing, even though the marshal had seen his share of the carnage of battle over the years. He was not a man who was easily shaken… but the young king was a close, personal friend, one of the closest that he had, if he thought about it. He was the son of his former captain, the great Marshal Éomund's son, and he had known the passionate, sincere young man since he had been barely able to walk. Even though Elfhelm had made it a point in his military life to keep his distance from most of his men, he had always felt like an older brother or even a parent to Éomer. In one way or another, there was no denying that the king was like family to the lone, seasoned warrior… which made it all the more difficult to experience what had happened in the hut.

There had been a lot of blood, the bad smell of the infection, and the healer's muttered remark as she washed the wound that it '_would be_ _easier to take off that arm and make the king pull through than keeping it attached to his body and do the same'._ Elfhelm had looked at her in horror, not wanting to believe how serious the situation still was. How frail his friend had become, and that his life was hanging by a thread. They had rescued him, hadn't they? How could he still be in danger when he was among friends? He had not wanted to believe what she told him next, either: that even if Éomer survived, his fighting days would be over, for his arm would forever stay weak. Elfhelm had looked down onto the young man's sweat-drenched face, the jaw still tightly closed around the leather restraint despite the fact that he was unconscious, and was unable to digest the healer's verdict.

He still denied the possibility to himself as he fought to surface from his sinister thoughts and deal with the situation at hand. Time was running through his hands. He had to keep a clear head. Turning away from the faint glow on the horizon, the marshal looked down on the few huts of the settlements, his lips a tightly drawn line. As a result of his second-in-command's orders, the farmers had left their homes a short while ago, headed north towards the great plains on a narrow mountain path the enemy would not be able to navigate. They had also done as they had been told and freed their stock, but the animals could not be convinced to head out in the chilly night while they had perfectly sheltered stables instead. Every time the farmers had tried to force them out, they had headed back, even when they had closed the doors. The animals were still running around in the village in their search for shelter in the beginning snowstorm. They would be lost; there was nothing Elfhelm or anyone could do about it.

"Thor?" The younger man's expression was telling him that his orders were eagerly anticipated.

"Aye, Marshal? What do you want me to do?"

Good man. He probably already knew what Elfhelm was going to ask of him.

"You pointed out that narrow part of the gorge to me shortly before we arrived. You said that it would be an ideal place to stage an ambush on an advancing army. Do you remember?" His scout narrowed his eyes.

"You want me to go?" He did not question the plan, although it had to be clear to him that he would place his life in extreme danger if he did.

"Not to fight them, and not you, anyway. I will need you on that mountain path, as I have never travelled it myself. Find three good men and tell them to make for that place, and fast. When there, I want them to climb up--" The scout grimaced at that, and he knew how ridiculous his order sounded, but what could he do? – "and send an avalanche down there, or a rockslide. The slope looked quite unstable to me; it should be possible to send a devastating hail of rocks down easily enough. But we need to block that path. We need more time."

Thor nodded thoughtfully.

"Then I would suggest they do that just as the enemy is passing. We may be able to diminish their forces considerably." There was no need to mention that those men would put greatly jeopardise their lives this way. It would be a mission from which they would presumably not return. But of course Elfhelm knew that. The weary expression in his dark eyes spoke volumes as he gazed at his scout, deep in thought.

"Aye… it would help us very much indeed… but I will not give such an order. Let the men decide how they want to proceed. I cannot order them to walk to their deaths. If they block the way and delay Gríma, it will be equally valuable to us… just summon them fast." He forced himself into motion again, headed for the stairs. Time to get moving. "Abandon your post, Thor. We know they are coming. You are more valuable to me on the ground now. Find Findárras and order everybody to ready themselves for departure as fast as possible. I will go and get Éomer, and when we exit that hut, we will leave."

"Aye, marshal." The scout looked relieved that the waiting was finally over. "We shall be ready."

-------------------

It was the crackling of fire he heard first when he surfaced from the abyss. That, and a tapestry of muffled voices in the distance. He listened to them for a while, but could not understand. Then the pain hit, and listening, or any activity other than lying flat on his back and trying to concentrate on breathing against the searing agony in his right side was out of the question.

_Was his arm still there?_

For a moment, an unspeakable dread filled Éomer and he did not want to open his eyes and find out. What if it was gone? What if… he was crippled now, forever doomed to encounter pitying looks from his kinsmen? Forever doomed to hide in the Golden Hall while his men went into battle like some weak, senile monarch shortly before his end, because he was unable to wield a sword or shoot a bow? Short of having people he loved killed or suffering, that had always been his worst fear. He had never been able to look at kinsmen who had lost a limb without feeling a sharp sting himself and wondering how he would go on living if he would have to share their fate one day. What if he lost a leg and would never be able to ride again? What if a grave injury condemned him to spend the rest of his days in forced apathy, never again to leave the Golden Hall? The answer had been simple – he would sooner die than surrender to such a fate. It would be like cutting the legs off a horse, the wings off a bird. He would accept neither pity nor a cage, no matter what fate had in store for him… and what if he would forever be remembered by the name of 'Éomer the One-Armed' by the people of the Mark? Would he be able to live with it? The thought was frightening enough to lend him the energy to open his eyes.

_It was still there. _

They had bandaged his shoulder and bound his arm to his torso and then laid him on his side as to not disturb the exit wound on his back. Éomer also noticed that he was dressed in a warm, though slightly scratchy green woollen tunic and new breeches. A thick, fur-lined blanket was wrapped around him. Éomer's blurred gaze found back to his shoulder. Even the gentlest turn of his neck punched the breath out of his lungs, but he just wanted to look at his arm again and take comfort in the fact that it was still attached to his body. He did not recall too much from the moment on that the healer had begun her work on him, other than the sour taste of leather in his mouth and the white-hot bolts of agony that had ravaged his mind like a ravenous, starved predator, digging into the essence of his being with long, sharp claws, ripping and tearing, shredding his conscious to pieces. Elfhelm's and the healer's helpers' soothing, but fruitless efforts of calming him down. Sarabande shouting orders over his anguished grunts to the men holding him, issued in a cold, relentless voice devoid of compassion he had hated at that time. He had not had the energy to get angry at her then, and now that the procedure lay behind him, Éomer understood that her detachment had been a simple necessity to keep a calm mind in the midst of her gruesome work. Emotions like compassion would only be a hindrance when one had to dig into the wounds of fully conscious patients. She had succeeded in removing the remainders of the arrow from his body, and for that he was thankful, as his eyes went to the nearby table at the head-end of his bed. The splintered wooden pieces lay still there, and Éomer shuddered as he recalled the grinding sensation of wood and metal scrubbing against bone inside his body, and the creaking of his jaw muscles as his teeth ground down on the piece of leather in his mouth. His own muffled grunts and cries over the buzzing in his ears shortly before blackness thankfully claimed him.

Speaking of which – he was entirely spent. He wanted nothing more than go to sleep again, but the pain and a premonitory feeling that he would not be allowed to rest for much longer kept him awake and uneasy. Gríma's army was still tracking them, wasn't it? He was certain that he had missed most of what had been going on due to his deranged state, but if he knew one thing about his foe, it was that Wormtongue would not give up so easily while he still appeared to have the upper hand. His Uruk-hai were fearsome, and there were a lot of them, certainly more than Elfhelm had with him. If they could not avoid open battle, they would be annihilated. That was a simple and unshakeable truth. Stretching his legs under the blanket, Éomer shifted his position just the tiniest bit to take pressure from his hurting hip.

He had just closed his eyes again and begun to sink back to sleep when the voices in the back of the hut increased in volume. There were a variety of them now, all speaking simultaneously. Something was happening over there, and from their anxious tone, he king concluded that it had to be something bad. He blinked wearily… but there seemed to be something wrong with his eyes, for the entire room was suddenly bathed in an obscure mist. But 'mist' was the wrong word, for while his view was not obstructed, it looked to Éomer as if the consistency of the air had changed… liquefied, somehow. As if the interior of the hut were filled with water. And then he saw it - a faint pale hue pouring down from the ceiling to the floor of the hut; a thin, white mist that obstructed Éomer's view as it grew increasingly brighter ... to solidify in the shape of a great, white horse. The neck proudly arched, it tossed its head as it descended, and the long mane whipped the air and cascaded down over thick muscle like froth on the shore. The sharply-cut head, its silhouette keen and bold, was raised as it drank the air with flared nostrils, and when it turned around to look at him, the sight of large, empty black eyes bereft of life froze Éomer's innards and knocked the breath out of his lungs as a violent black current seized him.

Sleipnir had come for him at last. All the time, every single minute of the past one and a half days that lay behind him, the king had waited for the messenger of the dead to come and claim him, had pleaded in fact to be taken along, away from his misery, and now that his time had finally come... Éomer suddenly found that he was not ready to go. If Elfhelm was right with everything he had told him to offset Wormtongue's words... then he was not finished here. His people would not cheer when they heard about his death. His passing would weaken Rohan... and it would mean that, even if he had escaped from his foes clutches, Gríma Wormtongue would ultimately be victorious. He could not let that happen. His pride forbade it.

The current was moving faster now, churning ever stronger towards the bottomless blackness inside as the great Stallion of the Beyond stepped up to him, its massive and yet ethereal frame looking far too big for the confinements of this place. The searing brightness it emitted bathed the inside of the hut in an unreal light as the vapour it had travelled on oozed lazily over the stone floor, transferring the simple wooden structure into a mystic place. Slowly it walked, and silently, with a awe-inspiring, majestic grace that and a dreamlike quality, as if it were wading through water rather than air. Its presence was as cold as ice and froze Éomer's breath as he laid on his side and stared, unable to move, a faint trail of vapour coming from his mouth as all warmth fled his battered body. His dazed mind raced as the ghost horse's terrible gaze found him again. The black current seized him with black fingers, slowly pulling him into the void. A single short word came to him, instinctively. A word he thought rather than said, felt than heard; a word that was filled with sudden conviction through every fibre of his being...

'_No...'_

The horrible black eyes passed him again, and even if the sockets seemed to be empty, Éomer had the distinct sensation that there was something moving beyond them. Sleipnir was rolling his eyes at him. Threatening him. Coming closer, the chill of his presence was enough to freeze the heart of the mightiest king. There was a question he was being asked, Éomer felt, and it would be asked for the last time. He was certain.

'_No!'_

The black sockets lingered on his feeble body for another endless moment, during which the pull diminished… and finally abated as the ghost horse turned away from him. Following transfixed as the unreal shape made its way further to the back of the hut – through the beds and tables and through the people - Éomer finally understood. There was someone else the horse had come for. He had been given the choice. He could have gone if he had wanted to. Poor Bergon further back was denied that choice. Sleipnir would take him, whether he wanted or not. Nobody noticed the radiant white shape as it approached them, its mane frothing around the thick neck even though there was no wind inside these walls to brush through it, the long tail swishing from one side to the other. The king knew he had by some means unknown to him passed into a half-world in order to see the messenger of the Valar. As he looked on, a bright, at first shapeless sphere, too brilliant to look at, rose from the circle of people standing around the fatally wounded soldier's bed. It flowed over the ghost horse's back and when Sleipnir turned around and thrust his ethereal body into the air to ascend to the realm he was king of himself, Éomer caught a glimpse of a man-like shape, the shortest look of a young, relieved face, released from his suffering. Bergon's spirit was looking his way, and for the briefest moment, their eyes met… and Éomer found that the deep thankfulness he was feeling towards the young kinsman who had given his life to free his king was understood. Ghostly pale lips formed a warm smile as the man's steed took a mighty leap into mid-air… and then everything flowed apart, and the King of Rohan was looking at his marshal's face.


	19. The Mountain Path

**Chapter 19: The Mountain Path**

* * *

"Éomer? Éomer, what--"The marshal turned around, alarmed by the younger man's mesmerised stare, but the space behind him was empty. "What is it? What do you see?" He hurried to make the few steps over to the resting king, and an shudder raced down his spine. His friend was still looking through him as if he weren't there. Elfhelm had seen that look before… on the faces of warriors who had died in the aftermath of battle. He was horrified to find it now on the younger man's face. "Éomer?"

Éomer blinked. Finally, a first sign of acknowledgement that the king had indeed noticed his presence as his eyes slowly traced back to the marshal's face as if he were waking from a dream. Elfhelm was relieved, but not much.

"His name was Bergon, you said?" The trance-like quality of Éomer's voice would have been enough to freeze Elfhelm's innards if they had not been frozen already, but his words did even more damage. What did Éomer know?

"The man they are treating back in the back of the hut? Aye. His name is Bergon."

"He is dead."

Elfhelm was stunned. For a moment that felt like an eternity, he stared at his friend's face before he felt able to turn around and follow Éomer's gaze – and there he saw the young woman who had introduced herself to him as Árdwyne lay a blanket over the deceased warrior. A sharp twinge of pain shot through him.

"He died for me, Elfhelm…" There was a desperate sadness to Éomer's husky, whispering words as the marshal knelt next to his bed, still looking spooked.

"He died to protect you, son, and I am sure it was a good death for him, all a soldier could ask for. He died performing his duty – and he succeeded in freeing you. If one day I die that way, I shall be content." He swallowed. "We will take him with us when we leave. His body shall not become fodder for Wormtongue's foul army!" Elfhelm noticed that Éomer's attention returned to him. "You frightened me for a moment. I thought…" But did he really want to share his thoughts? But the king's scrutinising stare seemed to go right through his defences and see the inside of his mind. Even though he looked exhausted and pained, there was a sudden, unnatural keenness to his already sharp senses.

"-that I was dying?" Éomer could see that it was so. A ghostly smile tugged at the corners of his mouth, one that had nothing to do with humour… only with the fact that he could hardly believe his own words as he spoke them. He, arguably one of the most rational-minded warriors of the Rohirrim was about to ruin his reputation! "I saw the horse, Elfhelm."

"The horse? Which horse?"

"The White Horse… Sleipnir." The older man stared at him, for once at a loss for words. His face turned ashen as he caught the implications of Éomer's words. It could not be!

"Èomer – you are fevered. It was a dream."

A hard glint sparkled in the dark eyes, one that had nothing to do with the fever.

"I _saw_ him, and it was no dream. He took Bergon's spirit away with him. Bergon was smiling…" He paused. "I heard about that Ghost Horse so often, Elfhelm, and I never believed in it, either. But I do now." The smile deepened, but it was mingled with profound melancholy. His words, meant as comfort, instead troubled the older man even more deeply as he laid his hand again on the king's brow. Lines appeared on his forehead. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could utter a sound, Éomer cut him off, angered. "It is the truth, Elfhelm. When have you ever heard me lie?"

"I am not accusing you of lying. But you are not in the condition to--"

"You have heard these words countless times before, I can read it in your eyes! And yet when you hear them from a good friend, you still choose to ignore the truth behind them."

"I remember we had more than one discussion about this 'Ghost Horse', my friend. And I remember very well that we both agreed that it belonged into the realm of legend. That is was a Rohirric myth."

"Aye… I recall I said that. But I was wrong." The lines on Elfhelm's forehead deepened in a frown, and his expression became so troubled that Éomer felt inclined to calm his friend down by grasping the older man's hand. "Fear not, Elfhelm. Legend says that the ghost horse comes only to the dying… but he let me choose. And I chose life. I will not die… at least not now. I still have a task to fulfil: to rid the Mark of Gríma Wormtongue's ugly face!" He gave the marshal's hand a slight squeeze.

Elfhelm took a deep breath and lastly, forced himself to smile. This was a haunting conversation they were having, one he had not the heart to lead if he had been given the choice, but at least Éomer had ended it on a slightly optimistic note, even though Elfhelm could not tell whether his friend's determination was simple pretence or not. Something Éomer had only said to end his worry… and he could not afford to waste any more time on it, as disturbing as the subject was. Sizing up his wounded friend with another thorough look, he finally forced himself to proceed with what he had come to do. Findárras would be here to assist him, soon.

"Éomer… I know you have been through a lot, but…"

"We have to move on."

"Yes." Silence. They could both hear the wind roar around the hut. Éomer's gaze passed the marshal as he stared at the window to see the darkness and swirling snow behind. The dread on his face was unmistakable. Elfhelm could not blame him. "How is your shoulder? Do you believe you can stay in a saddle?"

"It is not my choice to make…" Éomer swallowed, frightened by the prospects of having to head out into the raging elements. The dark eyes found Elfhelm. Yes, he _was _frightened. "Is it?"

The older man shook his head.

"I left some of our men at the watchtowers along the way. The first fire was lit a good while ago. Wormtongue's army is coming for us. We must leave."

"Where are we going?"

"Helm's Deep. It is the only place we could possibly defend against an enemy of greater number… although it has not been repaired yet…" Elfhelm went silent, knowing fully well how it sounded. "We can't afford to draw that army to another settlement. You know what would happen."

Éomer looked him straight into the eye and braced himself for the effort lying ahead of him. As his friend offered his hand to help him sit up, he grasped… and hissed at the intense pain as Elfhelm pulled him into a sitting position.

"Aye, I know…" He grunted and fought against a severe fit of nausea. His whole side seemed to be filled with liquid fire. Squeezing his eyes shut and trying to concentrate, Éomer somehow managed to ask between shallow, hasty breaths: "Will we stand alone at the Hornburg or did you send for reinforcements?"

"I sent two messengers to Erkenbrand from Iséndras. They should have reached him by now, but you know how long it will take them to get to Helm's Deep from there, especially in this storm." Elfhelm fought to steady his swaying friend as a voice came from behind, stern and admonishing.

"_Marshal Elfhelm_, may I ask what you are doing?"

He turned around to face the healer.

"I believe you know, my lady. It is time for us to leave. The enemy is already very close. I told you when we came that they were still on our track."

"And who would the enemy be? Why can we not fight against them here?"

"It is a host of Uruk-hai, at least three times as great as my éored. We would not stand a chance." Elfhelm paused. Saying it out loud made it more believable for himself, too. He was by no means eager to head into the snowstorm himself. "Believe me, Lady Sarabande, I would much prefer to stay here for the night, but we would not live to see the morning if we did. Our only chance of survival at this time, as unlikely as it seems, lies in running from them until reinforcements arrive." He heard his second-in-command enter behind him, and for a moment, got a first taste of the icy gusts of wind that had blown the wiry, red-haired Findárras into the hut.

"Marshal Elfhelm, the men are ready to leave. As you commanded, ten men of the settlement's éored will accompany us. All others have been on the way to the plains since moonrise." His gaze fell on the two healers and their two helpers, the only people left of the village's population. "I trust that you are set to leave, too, my ladies?"

The old healer eyed him for a moment longer and then shrugged as the woman who had introduced herself as Árdwyne stepped up to her with a questioning look on her face.

"There are none left for me to tend to here, except for the king…" Her gaze returned to Éomer, who, from the effort of sitting alone, was already drenched in cold sweat. "And he shall need me before long, I am afraid. Although what I should do for him once we are out there in the night, I do not know." She shook her head. "I am sorry, my lord, but wouldn't it be wiser to head into the mountains and hide until they have passed through, and then return? There are many suitable places we could reach fairly easily – even some huts. Having a roof over our heads alone would help!"

"It will not do," Éomer decided to use what had remained of his authority to end the discussion. They had to keep moving. It took a great effort just to raise his head and look into the old woman's pale blue eyes. His vision of her was blurred and misty before it finally stumbled into place. "They have a warg with them, and the Uruks' sense of smell is too good for us to simply hide in a cave and hope they will pass us by without noticing. They would find us. No, we must go."

She shook her head.

"Sire, your wound has barely stopped bleeding…. you are in no condition to ride…"

"No…" Éomer summoned Elfhelm's second-in-command to his side with a mere look and braced before he let the men pull him to his feet. "But I will have to. Like you. Prepare to leave."

**---------------------**

"Firefoot…" The way to the stables had been long and hard, and he had only made it with Elfhelm's and Findárras' combined strength. The vague relief on the other warriors' faces as well as their greetings and words of support had helped him as he had stumbled through the snow. Gríma's words were still all too prominent in his head, but when he had finally dared to look his kinsmen in the eye to determine for himself whether his friend's speech had indeed been founded in truth, Éomer had found only pride and reassurance in their faces... and worry. No disdain. No hate. Despite the fatigue that had claimed his body, he felt better.

He had nodded his thanks and appreciation to them and then concentrated again on staying on his feet against the sudden light-headedness that threatened to overwhelm him just before they reached the stables. His body was folding frighteningly fast, and he was freezing even through the three layers of clothing they had put on him.

Yet still Éomer experienced a brief moment of happiness as he was allowed to greet his beloved grey stallion for the first time since he had been freed from Gríma's grasp. He had his good hand on the horse's brow, the fingers hooked into the bridle as he slowly pulled the big head down to his chest, relishing in the sensation of the warm breath first on his face and then his body as he murmured a traditional Rohirric greeting into the dark grey ears. They twitched, and a slight smirk tugged at Éomer's mouth as Firefoot gently seized a fold of his tunic and started to chew on it. Elfhelm granted them the moment, even if he felt that time was running through their hands. But the king knew all too well himself how pressing their departure was, and he turned to face his marshal with a last pat on the animal's cheek. He nodded – and then his eyes widened as he saw a strange wooden frame on Firefoot's back.

"What in Béma's name is that?"

"Something the people of this village built for the transportation of their wounded," Elfhelm answered proudly. "The healer gave it to us. It will help you stay in the saddle, even if you lose consciousness… but we need to tie you to it." The frown on the king's face was unmistakable, but the marshal was determined not to accept any words of protest and rejection. It was a testimony to Éomer's condition that none came. He simply nodded and swallowed the indignity.

"Help me up."

With combined efforts, they managed to heave him into the saddle, then slung a fur-lined cloak and two heavy, warm blankets around him and tied him to the apparatus. As a finishing touch, Elfhelm tugged the hood of the cloak over his friend's face, trying hard to ignore the pained expression in the young features and instead offer some reassurance that they would best this situation as they had done on numerous other occasions.

"I am sorry we have to dress you like a wraith, but this should at least keep you reasonably comfortable and warm until we get there, son."

"Admit it, Elfhelm: you are actually enjoying this!" Éomer blinked, but the accompanying smile would not come through. "Be assured that my wrath will be horrible once I'm in better condition."

Finally, his efforts at lightening his friend's gloomy mood were rewarded with a very weak smile.

"I shall look forward to it then." He eyed his men, saw that they were all present and waiting for his command, and urged Éon out of the sheltered stable. "Let us move!"

----------------------

The huts lay deserted in front of them. Nothing moved except for a few animals that fled the procession of nightmare-creatures that spilled into the settlement.

"They're gone", the Uruk-hai captain growled, stating the obvious. His breath rose into the cold air in a white cloud, and the hair around his fanged mouth wore a thick crust of ice. "But the place is still ripe with their smell. Can't be gone long."

Wormtongue nodded thoughtfully, and his eyes narrowed. They were the only part of his face still visible under the heavy hood and the scarf he had wrapped around his neck and lower part of his head.

"They turned their animals loose, too. Shall we kill them?"

"No…no." The counsellor's gaze swept the empty settlement. The tracks on the ground had already almost been erased by the heavily falling snow, and the conditions afflicted the Uruks' sense of smell, too. They would have to hurry, or they would lose their prey. "No. We cannot afford to waste time. Just set fire to the huts, and then we must be on our way again. Make haste!" He paused and looked towards the other end of the village, a slight, knowing smirk playing around the corners of his mouth. "They are close, I can feel it. Soon, we shall be upon them… and you shall have a wonderful feast, my friends! There will be more man-flesh than even all of you can eat!"

-------------------------

"Marshal Elfhelm? Look! Our village is burning!" One man from the settlement's éored pointed behind them in horrified excitement. Visibility was poor in the raging snowstorm, but the ominous orange glow behind the mountain range they had passed could not be misinterpreted. The host of exhausted men and horses came to a crunching halt as all heads turned towards the distant inferno. Eyes widened, and heartfelt curses were muttered.

Elfhelm ground his teeth. Not only were even more of his fellow kinsmen losing their homes and possessions, but the enemy was also much closer than he had anticipated. It could not be much longer than one hour since they had left the settlement. What was the meaning of that discovery? That the men Thor had sent to intercept the worm's army had failed – and been killed? Very likely. Slowly but surely, their number dwindled to the point where Wormtongue's evil forces became truly frightening. Of their éored of fifty, he had sent two men away to alert Erkenbrand's forces. Bergon included, eight men had died in the attack, and five more had been wounded and would not be able to fight fully if they would ever have to engage in a head-on battle. Now, if no miracle had happened, they had lost another three men. Eru be praised they had the village's reinforcements, but all in all, they would not stand a chance if Wormtongue ever caught them. Even if they made it to the Hornburg in this weather… which was something Elfhelm was less sure off by the second.

Letting out a deep, inaudible sigh, the seasoned marshal turned his head to look at the hunched shape of the king under the layers of clothing and blankets, but the hood had fallen into Éomer's face and it was impossible to see the younger man's eyes. His still form indicated that he was unconscious, but there was no way to be certain. A nameless dread gnawed on Elfhelm. Since they had realised their plan and tied the king to the construction that kept him in the saddle, none of them would notice if he died during this horrible night. They had tied Firefoot's reins to the back of Elfhelm's saddle again to prevent the stallion from taking a wrong step on this treacherous terrain as they followed their scout on the narrow path through the mountains, but they were not planning on halting on the way, not even for a short break. They had to get to the Hornburg as fast as humanly possible. Still…

"Éomer?" The marshal narrowed his eyes in a vain attempt to see anything in the blackness under the hood. "Éomer, are you still with us?" No reaction.

"What is it?" Thor, who was riding in front of their single-file line, looked back at him in alarm. "How is the king faring?"

"I cannot say. He won't answer me." Elfhelm came to a decision and dismounted quickly to walk over to Firefoot's side. The path was too narrow for two horses to stand next to each other, and he had to watch his step on the slippery surface. He seized Éomer's thigh and gave it a slight shake. "Brother? In Eorl's name, give me a sign if you hear me!" He squeezed again, aware of the questioning gaze of the healer's helper, whose horse was right behind the king's. Finally, something that could have been a moan, but the sound was almost completely blown away by the wind. The figure stirred slightly under his touch, and the hood turned his way. Snow reflected in dark eyes, but it was impossible to see Éomer's expression.

"Are we there?"

"Not yet, my friend. Not yet." Part of Elfhelm was relieved over the younger man's reaction, but on the other hand, he appeared to be severely disoriented and had lost track of time already. Pushing his worry behind for a moment, he patted Éomer's leg and forced himself to show his friend an encouraging smile. "But we are on the way. Just hold on a bit longer. Can you do that for me?"

Éomer mumbled something that sounded like "...could not fall if I wanted to", but it was too indistinct for Elfhelm to be certain. He repeated his question, eager to proceed. No that he had confirmed that the king was still alive, the urge to continue their flight as fast as possible became overwhelming.

"Cold…" Éomer's voice trailed off, and his head sank onto his chest again.

"I know, son. I know…" Elfhelm exchanged another glance with Árdwyne. "Just stay with us. I promise you that this effort shall not be in vain. We will beat this snake! Don't let him win, Éomer!" He made his way back to Éon and climbed into the saddle to follow his scout, who was waiting for them a few lengths ahead. Even so, his silhouette was barely visible in the thickly falling, white and black chaos of night and snow. One last glance went back to the distant orange glow. Gríma would pay for this, too! "Rohirrim! Proceed!"

----------------------

Even though the conditions worsened by the minute and it seemed as if all the snow winter had in store for the Mark was going to fall in the course of this one night, the tracks were getting clearer and easier to follow the more they advanced. They were gaining on their fleeing prey, oh yes!

And once they had them, Gríma Wormtongue pondered eager with anticipation, he would make the king watch how the Uruk-hai killed off his kinsmen one by one. He would make them suffer for the little trick they had played on him. He had lost valuable time through their unexpected manoeuvre, and part of his carefully bred Uruk-hai. Replacing them would not be as effortless for him as it had been for the White Wizard. His breeding pits were much less sophisticated, and his overseers not equipped to handle the newly bred half-orcs' training by themselves. He would have to supervise them, and in the meanwhile, a hunt for him would be initiated the likes the people of the Riddermark had never experienced before. Wormtongue was certain that even now there were Rohirric messengers on the way to spread the tidings of his survival across Rohan. He had lost his most valuable advantage, thanks to whom he did not know yet. He would have to be infinitely more careful in the future about entering the domain of the horse-lords, so he would have to make this presumably last chase count. Chances were that he would never again come this close to killing his foe of many years. He had to succeed! And he would!

The counsellor woke from his inner musings as he saw the bulky shape of the warg and its rider approach. Both the orc's and his steed's eyes reflected eerily silver in the weak light.

"My Lord, the enemy is close. I have seen them with my own eyes on the next mountain pass. We should be upon them very soon… and on this path, they will have absolutely no way to evade us. They were stupid to choose this way. Very soon, it shall become their doom!"

Gríma allowed himself a small, satisfied smile under the relative warmth of his hood. "Very well, Âshgnak. Spread the word. It shall bring new strength to your brethren." The orc looked indignant of being named in the same breath with his towering half-brothers, but he nodded nonetheless and urged his mount to turn its massive bulk around on the narrow way. Up ahead, a low but growing thunder shook the mountains…

----------------------

Thor had been right: It was utter madness to attempt the crossing under these conditions, Elfhelm had to admit as his gaze wandered back from the ice-encrusted men and horses of his éored over the black abyss to their right side, and to the backside of his scout. The storm was raging over the mountain peaks and through the narrow gorges, and while the rock walls sheltered them from the elements at one place, it channelled the wind in others, making it increasingly harder to move on the slippery path without being pushed over the edge. They were advancing even slower than Elfhelm had anticipated, and the marshal found himself looking over his shoulder and scanning the way they had come for the enemy more and more often, but the winding mountain path did not allow for wide, sweeping views. Wormtongue and his Uruks had to be there somewhere, even if he couldn't see them. He sensed them. At one point, he even thought he could hear a distant bellow over the roaring storm behind them, even under the heavy fabric of his hood.

He wondered if Thor had heard it, too, but if he had, the scout gave it away with no sign. No looking back, no acceleration, no hurried attempt to put more distance between them and their pursuers. It would have been impossible anyway. They were proceeding as fast as they could without running an even higher risk of losing men and horses. His dark-bay steed trembled beneath him, and Elfhelm would have given much to take the strain from his exhausted horse. It looked pitiful with its ice-encrusted face and chest, and he could feel the strength it took Éon just for each new step in the almost knee-high snow. Under normal conditions, he would have liked to dismount, since they proceeded slowly enough to walk, but the path was so narrow occasionally that he did not dare. Another look back, but again sheer granite walls blocked his view. All he could see were dark, slumped shapes hunched under heavy cloaks, looking like chimeras as their silhouettes merged with those of their horses. A procession of fantasy creatures…

A shudder ran from the ground up Éon's legs, the vibrations travelling all the way up through Elfhelm's body to his head. At first, he knew not what to make of it – but then there was suddenly a hasty movement of the shape in front of him and a low, but quickly growing growl from the top of the slope they were passing told him that their worst fear had become reality.

"Avalanche!" Even as Elfhelm spotted the crest of a white tidal wave rushing their way, Thor spurred his horse to reach the shelter of a narrow canyon up ahead. "Run! Run!" The scout's voice was drowned out in the rock-shattering thunder as Elfhelm kicked his heels into Éon's flanks. The stallion jumped forward – and slipped! For a moment, he danced precariously alongside the gaping abyss before another jump brought him back on solid ground, racing blindly through the mist of tiny snowflakes preceding the force of nature that was about to devour them. "Run for your lives!"

The mouth of the canyon was close, but now the entire mountain shook beneath their feet. Thunder drowned out everything as the night became a white, furious hell…

-------------------------

The procession of Uruk-hai came to a halt. For a moment, there was a strained silence as the great orcs listened to the sound of the white inferno. From where they were, they could see nothing more then a great bright cloud of loose snow being spat into the darkness up ahead, but they, too, had felt the earth tremble beneath their feet, and more than one head turned towards the mountain peaks that towered over their own position.

"Master?" Amber eyes reflected in the ghostly pale light. "It sounds as if--"

"The mountain is killing them, yes." Gríma Wormtongue's expression could not be made out in the shadow of his clothing, but he sounded disappointed. After all the effort he had put into his plan and now their pursuit, he was loath to be denied the pleasure of killing King Théoden's nephew himself. Éomer _could _not be dead yet! The orc seemed hesitant. Clearly, he was uncertain whether he should speak the words that were on his mind out loud.

"But… if they are dead already…"

"We will not have to proceed?" Pale blue eyes, as frosty as the chilly night, tore into the creature's face. "You are not telling me that you are afraid to follow them, Gârlâk?" The voice was silky, but the underlying threat clear enough. The orc tried to look indignant at his master's accusation, but he failed.

"Their fate could quickly turn into ours, my lord. I was just--"

"-admitting that you and your brethren are cowards? I would not have believed it, if you hadn't told me. I have never heard that that Uruk-hai are afraid of anything. It has been a common belief for many years, I might say. But it appears to be a falsehood like so many things people say about things they don't understand. A fairytale... or maybe it was my mistake. Maybe I failed to include the one ingredient that turned Saruman's Uruks into such fearless killers. I should have looked over his shoulder more attentively, then I wouldn't be stuck in the middle of a snowstorm with a bunch of cowardly orcs!"

The yellow eyes sparkled with open anger now.

"There is nothing the Uruk-hai were ever afraid of, and there will never be!"

"Fine," Gríma sneered, pointing a gloved finger in the direction they had been riding. "Then proceed."

-------------------

The silence was complete. The world had turned white and quiet, and for a moment, Elfhelm wondered whether this was indeed the afterlife. Had they all been swept off the mountainside by the masses of snow and rock? He had felt nothing, no falling sensation, no pain. If he was indeed dead, then this had been a good way to go. But even as he continued to wonder about his fate, the outline of the rock walls surrounding him began to shine through the settling whiteness of the snow and the laboured breaths of his exhausted stallion reached his ears – and the cries of the men of his éored could be heard from behind.

"Thor?"

"I'm here." The scout's black horse appeared from out of the mist like a ghost. "The king?" Even his unusually sharp eyes had difficulties seeing Éomer's dapple grey stallion in the swirling black and white. Elfhelm looked back and saw his friend's slumped shape still in the saddle. He even saw movement as Éomer turned his head just the slightest bit to follow their gaze back. All in all there were about twenty, twenty-five horses and men crammed into the safety of the canyon along with him… but where was the rest?

"Findárras?" Behind him, he heard Thor call out the names of the men he recognised. His second-in-command was not among them. "Findárras!" He urged Éon to turn around.

The mist had settled enough for Elfhelm to finally see the full scope of the catastrophe that had befallen them, and the sight of it knocked the breath from his lungs: The entire shoulder of the mountain they had passed under was cold, icy rock, there was no snow left on it. Everything had tumbled down on them and fallen into the abyss – and the path was gone. It had broken off on a length greater than the reach of two or three ropes, leaving nothing but a gaping, sheer cliff.

Something moved behind the hole! Apparently, some men of his éored had managed to turn back in time to evade the deadly masses… but now they were cut off, and there was no chance in hell for them to cross the gap, not even if they left their horses behind. Among them, Elfhelm saw the tall brown horse of his second-in-command, and a mix of heated rage and shattering despair seized him. What had they done to deserve such a fate? What had they done to anger the old gods? This was their second consecutive night without sleep; they had been on their feet for longer and putting more leagues behind them than Elfhelm could count, all in faithful service to their king and people, so _how could this be_? Why had that avalanche not knocked their enemies from the mountain-side? Why them?

"Findárras!"

"Sarabande! Valar, no!" Árdwyne's high, distressed voice cut through the shouts and muttering. Elfhelm's stomach took another plunge – so the healer was on the other side, too! "Please, Marshal Elfhelm, we must do something!"

"We can't." The head of his scout's steed emerged at his side, and a moment later, the half-Dunlending came to a halt next to him. His voice sounded low… and beat. He had already grasped the terrible meaning of what had happened. "There is nothing we can do to help them. We must leave. Findárras would want us to. He will attempt to take as many of the Uruks with him as he can, and he would want for us to make the most of the time he's buying us. We cannot let his last effort be in vain."

"Maybe, if we throw them a rope-"

"We do not have enough rope," Elfhelm muttered dully without being able to take his eyes off the men on the other side of the gap. He counted nine. Together with the men here in the canyon, it meant that some had died on the foot of the mountain, as well. He hated how hopeless his own voice sounded. They were maybe only three hours away from the relative safety of Helm's Deep, and yet there were only less than half of the people left he had led into this ill-fated rescue mission. Never had he anticipated such losses. "And in this storm, we could never throw it over to them." He hated the sound of his next words. "Thor is right. We must move on."

"But what about Sarabande?" Frozen tears glistened on the young woman's cheeks as she reached out for the marshal. "She saved the king's life! You cannot desert her now!"

"I am sorry--" Elfhelm began, but he was cut off by a husky voice. He turned his head and looked into Éomer's face. The hood had been blown from his head by a gust of wind, and his eyebrows, lashes and beard were full of ice, but at least he appeared to be lucid.

"I am sorry, Árdwyne. I will be forever indebted to--" he hesitated, not knowing the relationship between the two women.

"She was my teacher."

"Your teacher. Aye." He nodded slightly, suppressing a wince. "And I am certain she taught you well. And that she also taught you to recognise a lost cause." His words were bitter, and Árdwyne's tears made it even harder for him, but they had to be said. "She would have told you to move on if she had ever anticipated this situation. To not wait for someone who will not be able to follow. It is one of the first rules you learn in the field - to not throw one life after another senselessly, not even after a friend. Your friend would want for you to go on, not die a senseless death." He had to pause and fight to catch his breath. The few sentences had robbed him of the strength he had possessed for a short time as his eyes swept over the lost men and the woman behind the gap. The lines of pain on his face deepened as he added in a low, finite tone: "We must move on. There is still a good chance that we share their fate ere the night is over… I am sorry, Árdwyne." He turned to his marshal, whose eyes were likewise still fixed on the other end of the gap. For a moment, none of the survivors spoke. Their thoughts went out to their doomed comrades-in-arms, and silent prayers were spoken for them. Then, suddenly, a faint shout could be heard over the storm, and the small group of riders headed back from the brink of the cliff to a formation of rock that would grant them an advantage once they faced the hostile army, however small.

Éomer forced himself to look away. He met his friend's knowing, desperate eyes and braced for the effort of the continuation of their path. A cloud of despair, darker than even the black night, hung over the small group of survivors as they slowly disappeared in the whirling snow…


	20. Last Refuge

**Chapter 20: Last Refuge**

* * *

"Where are they headed? Speak, and I may end your suffering quickly." Wormtongue's gaze pierced the mortally wounded man his Uruk-hai had half-carried, half-dragged to him. He was the only one still alive of the little group that had been trapped on their side of the gap, although he would not last for long. His carefully crafted cuirass indicated that he was a soldier of high rank, and as the counsellor's scrutinising look continued to linger on the pale, pained face, he recalled having seen the man before, during his service under the late King Théoden, although he could not remember his name. Three bolts had punched into his torso through his armour and thin rivulets of blood were running from the corners of his mouth. He would be dead very soon, but not so soon that Gríma could not threaten him with making his passing even more painful. He drew a thin, jagged blade from his belt and pressed it against the wounded man's throat to add impact to his words – and found himself taken aback as the prisoner spit into his face – saliva and blood. Then he laughed at his captor, even though his breathing sounded raspy and laboured.

"You are helpless now, snake, aren't you? You cannot follow them, and you will not find them again when you turn back now! And soon, my brethren will hunt down you, and the filth that accompanies you, like rabid dogs! You cannot threaten me! I am not afraid of death!" Findárras gritted his teeth at his enemy in a bloody grin. His men were dead, and he would rejoin them very soon, and his agony would end. They had done what they could for Elfhelm and the king. They had managed to kill the warg and its rider, and even a few of Wormtongue's Uruks before a hail of arrows and crossbow-bolts had punched through their defences with deadly accuracy, killing horses and men alike. There was nothing more for him to do.

A malevolent sparkle glistened in the watery eyes in front of him, but all Findárras saw was his own image mirrored in the dark pupils as Wormtongue moved so close that he could actually smell the scent of his sick-looking skin.

"If you choose these words to be your last, so be it, nameless rider of Rohan! Laugh at me, if you like, but we will find them, and when we do, their fate shall be even worse than yours! Enjoy your last laugh!" Slowly but forcefully, he drew the blade over the soldier's neck, and his cold stare stayed on the dying man until the Rohir's eyes broke and all ridicule died with him…

**-------------------------**

It was a pale morning, and the sky was the colour of old, dried bones as the line of utterly exhausted horses and men stumbled into the rift of Helm's Deep. Somewhere shortly before dawn, the snow-storm had blown itself out, but there was still a thick layer of clouds above their heads that prevented the sun from warming the refugees' freezing shapes as it finally began its ascent in the sky.

The great fortress of the ancient sea-kings loomed as mightily and forbidding as ever in front of them, nestled into a niche in front of the sheer granite walls, but even from afar the great breach Saruman's magical fire had blown into the Deeping Wall gaped at the tired, beat men and indicated that they were vainly looking for safety in this place. Further over to the right side, at the end of the long stone ramp, the great wooden and metal gate was likewise still broken. The Hornburg would not be their unbreakable refuge, so Elfhelm had decided that they would make their last stand in the caves. He had been loath to dispatch two of his freezing, hungry, exhausted soldiers to man the watchtower closest to the fortress, but they had to know when the enemy came. It did little for his conscience that he would send them relief around midday. They were all yearning for a sheltered place and a little comfort and warmth, but someone had to keep watch. He was glad that the men had accepted their bad luck without so much as a cross glance, or even a complaint.

The Rohirrims' hearts froze as they rode in oppressive silence over what had been the bloodiest battlefield in the history of Rohan only half a year ago. The bodies of their fallen had long been properly buried, and the carcasses of their enemies been burnt, and still the men felt as if the malevolent eyes of thousands upon thousands ghosts were watching their every step, just waiting to assault them once the sunlight was gone again.

"I cannot believe we made it," Thor muttered to himself as his gaze went up to the highest part of the Hornburg. Against better knowledge, he had found himself hoping that through some miracle, Erkenbrand's reinforcements would already be waiting for them at their destination, but the pure, undisturbed white blanket that covered the ground before them had quickly turned his hope to dust, long before his hawk-eyes had been able to determine that there was nothing moving the way they were headed. His heart sank, and as he urged his exhausted black steed into the valley that marked their final approach, he could not help looking back over his shoulder in search for the enemy. But Gríma could not be here so fast. It was not humanly possible. And even Uruks had to have their limits!

"Aye. It feels like a dream. But that is probably because we haven't slept in over two days now," Elfhelm answered him, even though he was aware that his scout had not been explicitly talking to him. But after the last hours which they had spent in utter, devastated silence, he felt the distinct need to hear his voice again to chase away the ghosts of the horrible night that lay behind them, as well as the ghosts of the battlefield they were crossing. Despite the layers of thick clothing, he felt completely frozen and hissed in pain as he attempted to roll his stiff, aching shoulders. The grey shape of the Hornburg did not look as encouraging as he had hoped. In fact, the view rather stirred up the ghosts of agonised cries and shrieks, growling and angry bellows, the sound of metal against metal and the forceful swishing sounds of flying arrows… and, of course, the deafening explosion and the thunder of falling debris all around him. He even felt as if he could sense the earth-shattering concussion again, and smell the burnt stench of whatever the White Wizard had used for his deadly fire.

Involuntarily, Elfhelm's eyes went to the part of the wall where he had stood when it happened, and he shivered. He had come so close to not only being blown straight into the realm of his forefathers, but without leaving a recognisable body, something that could be buried, too. True to the Rohirrim belief, no soul could ascend to the realm of the deceased if their mortal remains had not been tended to in the right way… like the men they had left behind on the mountain path. The knowledge that their spirits would be lost forever stung the marshal like a blade straight into his gut. It had been the worst decision Elfhelm had been forced to make in his life, because Findárras and the others had not even been wounded when they had abandoned them. All these years those men had trusted him to lead them through even the worst battles, and now his decision to come to their king's aid had resulted in the death of half of his éored, with not one man having been properly buried. The very thought sickened the warrior. At least, Éomer had helped him to carry that burden when he had explained Elfhelm's decision to the distraught young healer in their midst. He had been thankful for that, and suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to let his friend know. He turned around in the saddle… and frowned.

The man under the cloak and blankets was sitting slumped in the saddle, his entire weight resting on the construction that had kept him upright over the night. The way his head lolled from side to side with each of Firefoot's steps indicated that his strength had deserted him completely now, but his eyes were open, and his gaze directed at the ruins of the Hornburg before it glided down to meet his friend's questioning gaze. There were deep shadows under his sunken eyes, and his face looked gaunt and drawn with a pale complexion that smashed Elfhelm's vague relief over Éomer's being awake to dust. The king looked indeed like a wraith! Determined not to let his immense concern show, the marshal untied Firefoot's reins and pulled the grey stallion next to his side as they approached the ramp together.

"We are there, brother. We made it. And I am certain that Erkenbrand's men won't let us wait for very long, either. If Gríma really finds us here, he shall be in for a nasty surprise!" Elfhelm was not used to lying, and the optimistic words felt strange in his mouth. He fell silent, knowing fully well that Éomer would pick up the doubt behind them, too. If he wasn't able to convince himself, how should he convince a man as shrewd as the king?

"You are a bad liar, Elfhelm," Éomer muttered rightly, looking ready to fall from the saddle as soon as they cut him loose. "But thank you for the effort." He noticed that the scout's attention had turned to him as well and met his eyes for a moment, affirming that he was still with his kinsmen. It took him another moment to collect his breath for a question. _The_ question. "What now?"

"The Hornburg, as you see, lies still in ruins. We could probably repair the gate until Gríma arrives--" Elfhelm's tone left no doubt that he absolutely counted on the appearance of their enemy – "-but it wouldn't hold for long. I believe that we will have a better chance of defending ourselves in the caves. The tunnels beneath the mountains are very narrow, and the Uruks will have to move through them in single-file. They will not be able to make as much use of their greater number... and we will use the hours until they arrive to prepare a few... surprises for them. If we do this right, we may be able to greatly reduce their numbers before we have to meet them in head-on battle..." He paused, then stared at the younger man as a sudden thought hit him. "How well does Gríma know the caves?"

Éomer's gaze swept the white ground until it came to rest at the shadow that marked the outside entrance to the Glittering Caves. There was also another one that granted them access from the Hornburg. So Gríma would be able to come at them from two ways... His brow furrowed as he contemplated Elfhelm's question, not liking the most likely answer.

"I cannot say. But we would be well advised to assume that he knows each rock within them. As much as I hate the slithering filth, I have to admit that each part of his attack has been well planned and executed. He may be just as cunning as his late master..." He grimaced as his steed stumbled over rock. Firefoot was about to collapse; he felt it with every fibre of his body. "What about our horses? We cannot put them in the stable, where they would become easy prey for his Uruks. But to leave them outside in these conditions..." He did not have to finish. Obviously, Elfhelm had been thinking about this problem, too.

"Aye, I know. They need the rest as much as we do. We will let them rest in the stables for at least a few hours. Thor's shortcut should at least grant us that time, even it came at a very high price." Elfhelm's thoughts went out to the doomed men of his éored again. "We will let them rest and feed for as long as we can, and when the fire is lit, we will drive them out into the valley. They should be smart enough to evade the enemy." He directed his great bay onto the ramp towards the smashed gate.

Éomer's gaze went back to the men following them. It was a pitifully small procession. His mouth tightened to a grim line. He wanted to believe that they still had a chance, he really did, but his heart sank with each step that brought them closer to the Hornburg. Once again, their fate would be decided here. The first time, their victory had come virtually at the last second, and while the men of Rohan had praised his reckless ride then, Éomer knew that they would nonetheless not have made it if Mithrandir's power had not turned the tide towards their side. This time, the scale of the battle would be much smaller, but the odds were at least as unfavourable for them as before. Only this time, there would be no Istari wizard coming to their rescue. This time, they would have to make it all by themselves...

**-------------------------**

Finally, the storm had blown itself out. It had seemed to ravage their half-frozen bodies forever when they had been forced to turn around on the mountain, unable to bridge the long gap where the path had broken away under the force of nature. Wormtongue had been standing at the edge of the cliff for a long time, closer than reasonable under the extreme conditions, and peered down into the darkness below. Was Éomer dead? Had the mountain swept them all from its shoulder in its fury? The scrawny Rohirric soldier he had interrogated had not given him the least clue, and for that, the counsellor had wanted to make the man suffer even longer, but the truth was that they had no time. If the refugees had indeed survived the avalanche and proceeded on the path, it would give them a lead that would make it impossible for Wormtongue to ever get his hands on them again before they reached their destination. Ah yes, their destination…

He looked up from the improvised shelter under a natural cornice, where they had finally chosen to rest for an hour shortly before dawn. Just after they had reached the plains they had found that the wind had been even harder on them, and proceeding had become a matter of will against elements to the point where Wormtongue had – for the first time – encountered serious problems with his company. Even though he had been fatigued and half-frozen himself and his horse exhausted almost to the point of collapsing beneath him, his hatred had driven him on and he had not wanted to pause… His surprise had therefore not been small when he had to discover that finally the Uruks' patience had been at an end with him, and his host had been close to mutiny. The smart inner voice of self-preservation in the back of his mind had advised him urgently to follow their demand, even though he ached to go on. For the first time ever, a slight quiver of fear had twitched in his stomach when his orc-captain had approached him to growl his demand into his face, and suddenly the dark counsellor had found himself the centre of attention of hundreds of pairs of brightly gleaming, not exactly benevolent looking eyes. What had he done wrong with this breed? Why were they not as easily controllable as his late master's? He would have to work his breeding pits once they had returned to the Misty Mountains.

Intimidated, but still able to sufficiently mask the feeling to his army as his own need for a break and having to consult his maps, he had then wrapped the cloak tighter around his thin frame and hunched down in a relatively sheltered corner to do just that. With the warg gone and the conditions the way they were, it was down to him to figure out where his prey was headed. He had not known of that particular mountain path they had used before, and he would have passed it if it had not been for the orc-wolf's sharp senses, for it had looked like a trail that would – at best – accommodate goats. Now, where did it lead? The map rustled in the wind and was almost ripped from his stiff fingers by another violent gust, and he cursed and squinted in the twilight of the early morning as he attempted to decipher the writing on the map, which had been drawn by an experienced Dunlending scout, also his own creation.

It was a rare enough incident that the primitive Dunlendings knew what to do with a quill and paper, and he had sought a long time after that man. He had been a mud-blood, Gríma remembered: three-parts Dunlending, one part Rohir. The usual story: Grown up on the wrong side of the river Isen where the population was mingled and regarded with great distrust by the 'strawheads', as Éorl's descendants were called by the Dunlendings. Never allowed to join their exclusive company. Not allowed to let their cattle graze on the rich meadows, even though the vast land was empty for leagues. The one time he had trespassed, a patrol of the Rohirrim had caught and punished him severely, kept his cattle and chased him back over the river, now another hate-filled enemy more. Gríma had made the man's acquaintance while he had been constantly travelling between Isengard and Edoras in Théoden's, or rather, Saruman's service, and, having instantly recognised his potential, had tutored him to read and write and in the art of map-drawing. Combined with the man's vast knowledge of the Westmark, he had cultivated himself a very valuable scout... and now all the years of his scheming had come in handy as he stared onto the map.

The light was weak and the lines on the paper thin, but the path _was_ there! Excitement replaced frustration and cold as Gríma Wormtongue traced the winding line with his finger to the point where they had been forced to turn around... and then all the way up to... Helm's Deep.

Helm's Deep... yes indeed, this had to be the place the king's men were headed! There was nothing else in the vicinity for leagues, and they would have to seek shelter very soon, especially if they still had the wounded king with them. A fire burnt in the counsellor's eyes when he looked up again, suddenly not feeling the cold anymore. The nearest orc, feeling his master's sudden excitement, stared at him questioningly as he chewed on a piece of half-frozen meat.

"Âsghnak? I have figured out where they are. Spread the word that we will continue our march as soon as I give the signal. You do not want to linger here when your prey is sitting trapped like a mouse, stuck in a place they cannot defend with no way out... do you?"

**-----------------------------**

Elfhelm felt beat; like death on legs. That they still carried him after the hardships of the past two days and especially what he had done over the course of the last three hours was no small miracle, but now he had reached his limit, just like every one of his men. He had outlasted the first shift for an hour, but now he had reached the point where it was inevitable that he would have to fetch at least a few hours of undisturbed sleep himself, approaching enemy or not. He would only have another look at his friend, he decided, and then he, too, would lie down for a few hours rest. Just like the men who had worked that shift with him, desperately preparing for battle and turning the Hornburg as well as the caves behind the fortress into a treacherous terrain full of deadly traps. The preparations were ongoing, but now Thor, whom he had proclaimed his new second-in-command, was supervising them and the men Elfhelm had sent straight to sleep upon their arrival at the Hornburg. Together with his scout, he had first helped to bring Éomer into the king' chambers where Árdwyne had once again tended to his wounds, and then summoned what was left of his once proud éored to discuss their course of action.

All men had agreed on choosing the caves as the location of their last stand, and together, they had developed a strategy to gradually reduce the enemy's numbers through a variety of simple, but effective traps. There were more than enough weapons available in the armoury, a wide variety of Rohirrim and orc-instruments of war that had been found on the battlefield after the clash with Saruman's army: range-weapons like bows and mighty Uruk-crossbows, cruel-looking blades of all forms, swords, axes, lances...Elfhelm could not have wished for more. There was plenty of firewood, too, which they could easily transform into deadly spikes, and barrels filled with oil they could ignite to rain down onto the unsuspecting enemy... They had ropes, they had the complete accessory of a smithy at their hands, even if they didn't have a blacksmith to work them... all they had to do was get to work. For the first time, Elfhelm felt something like a tiny ray of hope as he watched the half of his men he had not sent to sleep begin their preparations.

Éomer's still form was lying on the bed as he entered, and the young healer was in the middle of redressing his shoulder. The room was a little warmer than the rest of the Hornburg, thanks to the fire they had lit in the fireplace opposite the bed. A pleasant smell came from a bowl hanging over the flames. Elfhelm had not eaten for a long time, but the sight of the blood-stained old bandages on the table close by dampened his sudden fit of hunger, and he cringed inwardly as he came to a halt at the foot-end of the bed, his intense gaze on the king's face.

"Éomer?"

The younger man did not react to the sound of his voice. Even though it was anything but warm in the room, there was sweat running down his face, which, in the flickering light of the fire, looked deadly pale, except for the dark shadows under his eyes and the slightly bluish tinted lips. At his sight, Elfhelm felt fear coming back with a sudden jolt, and his gaze went down to the king's chest. It was still rising and falling with each of Éomer's breaths, but all in all, his condition seemed to have vastly deteriorated since they had ridden up the ramp together into the keep. Although exhausted to the point of collapsing, Éomer had still been lucid then, even if his strength had completely failed him when they had brought him inside. This time, they had had needed to carry him. Fearing to ask the one question he needed to know the answer to, Elfhelm finally cleared his throat and spoke.

"How is he, Árdwyne? He looks horrible!"

The young healer's head turned around, and it was not surprising to the marshal that she looked just as beat as him. A very hard night lay behind them, and there was also her personal loss. Elfhelm was determined to send her to sleep, too, as soon as she had finished tending to his friend, even if it were just for a few hours. He and his men were warriors; they were used to extreme hardships, and even they had reached their limit. That woman had to have passed hers a good while ago. She sighed at his question, and toned her voice down as to not to wake her patient as she applied the finishing touches to his bandage.

"I cannot say, my lord. He was still awake when I bathed the wound again, but he passed out from the pain, and the movement made it bleed again, too. He is also still feverish." She paused as she saw the marshal's gloomy expression and could tell that he was expecting the worst. It made her want to say at least something a bit more positive. "But I may have good tidings as well: I managed to get a little broth into him an hour back, and as far as I can determine, the infection has not spread further. While it is true that he is very weak right now, I deem it not entirely impossible that he might pull through – if the enemy allows us to live, of course." She swallowed and averted her gaze again to fasten the last end of the bandage before she settled two woollen blanket's over her patient's unmoving shape and tugged them in under Éomer's back. "Do you think they will, Marshal Elfhelm? Or do you think they will find us here and…?" She left the sentence unfinished.

"I cannot say." Elfhelm's gaze followed her as she took a wet cloth from a water-filled bowl close by and wiped the king's face. A fresh odour drifted across the room. "All I can say is that if they do, they will find us prepared. We will make them fear this battleground once again. No enemy has ever defeated us here, not even last time, when their number had been many times as much as ours. Our chances are much better this time. They are still made only of flesh and blood. They are not invincible... and Erkenbrand's men must arrive soon, too. With a little luck, they will be here before the enemy does, and then the outcome of the battle will not even be a question anymore." It sounded good, but he felt no inner conviction in himself to lend strength to his words. Maybe it would do for the woman nonetheless.

Having finished with her task, Árdwyne leaned back in her chair and sighed. Her drawn features were filled with the memory of a distant dread as she stared through the marshal back into the blackest night of her young life.

"Last time… it was awful. I was with the other women in the caves, and we heard the footsteps of the approaching army through the rock. We even felt the vibrations. The whole cave was filled with them. It sounded as if there had been enough of them to fill all of Rohan's plains." She looked up. "When we heard them roar - I had no hope left. You know what we were talking about as the night went on and the sound of the battle did not abate?" A heavy breath. "We were contemplating killing ourselves… and our children, to save them and us from a worse fate. We swore that the orcs would not get us alive. We were so close to actually doing it… Some women had daggers with them, and those without were grouping around them, so that each would have a means of escape if the enemy ever broke through." She ran a nervous hand through her tangled hair, and her gaze was urgent when she looked up again. "Please, Marshal Elfhelm, I am not armed. Can you give me at least a dagger to take care of that if the battle turns ill this time? I cannot envision a worse fate than being captured by orcs… alive. I have heard horrible stories during the war… and I've treated the women who told them." She shuddered and gazed at the unconscious king again. "I would take care of him, too, in this case, if you want me too… before the enemy recaptured him. I can fight. You know there are no women in the Westfold who never had a sword in their hands. The Lord Erkenbrand sees to it that both boys and girls learn the basics at an early age at his domain. Once a year, his men go through the villages and take all children with them for a month to teach them." The blue eyes traced back to Elfhelm, and their gaze became hard. "Do you want me to take care of the king if the enemy finds him, my lord?"

Elfhelm cringed. He was tired. The least thing he wanted right now was to make a decision about life or death, and not even his own. He could not think properly anymore.

"Let us not talk of death now, Árdwyne. There is still hope. We will make it." Another glance at Éomer. There was a bed close by that Elfhelm was determined to send the young woman to. He himself would be satisfied with the chair. He had always been able to sleep where he lay or sat, even in a saddle. As a Rohirric warrior who was constantly roaming the Mark, that ability had been pure necessity. It was seldom that he had a bed to sleep in. Whenever he had the opportunity, it even took him a night or two to get accustomed to it again, so used was he to sleeping on the ground with nothing but a blanket beneath him. Stepping up to the young healer, the marshal gave her a slight, dismissive nod. "See that you get some rest, too, Árdwyne. We all shall have needs for it ere this day is over. I will sit here with the king in the meantime. I sleep very lightly; I will hear if anything is wrong with him. Go, take that bed over there."

Her face lit up in thankfulness... and doubt.

"But… my lord, won't you-"

"That chair looks very comfortable." A very weak smile, which she returned. "In fact, it looks much better than this bed." He motioned her to stand up and, with a last look at the sleeping king, leant back and closed his eyes. He was asleep even before he heard the young healer lie down…


	21. Helm's Deep

**Chapter 21: Helm's Deep**

* * *

"Do you think they will come in here, Éomer? Do you think they will come in here and… kill us?" Éowyn was huddled in a blanket that looked huge on her tiny frame. She was nine years old, and the long hard winter and ensuing lack of food as well as their narrow escape to Helm's Deep had taken their toll on his little sister. She looked scrawny like one of the peasants' children, instead of a well-fed member of the royal family, and she looked tired… and scared. Scared to death. And his sister was not one to be frightened easily. Even though Éomer, from the superiority of his thirteen years, liked to tease his younger sibling on occasion, he would also be the first to defend her against others as the 'bravest girl he knew'. And she was, undoubtedly. Apart from their parents' deaths, there was hardly an incident Éomer could remember when he had seen his little sister cry. Pain certainly did not make her. There had been numerous occasions apart from the usual scraped knees and bruises children collected on their way to adolescence when he had been proud of her. Once a horse that had gone wild in the stables had bitten her. On another occasion, she had taken a bad fall from a horse and broken her arm, and yet she had always clenched her teeth, and even though her eyes had been moist and betraying her pain, not a single tear had made it down her cheeks. No, pain, obviously, could not touch his little sister. She was not afraid of it.

She _was_ afraid of the wild men and ghoulish creatures outside their temporary refuge however, and again, Éomer could hardly blame her, for he was afraid himself. The sounds of the battle, the terrible grunting and roaring, the cries of the wounded and dying in the pitch-black dead of night just outside the caves – though distant - were hard to listen to… all the more since so many of the people they knew and cared for were outside, fighting. Like… their uncle... and their cousin. It also did not help that they had been confined to this sparsely decorated room, which was little more than an empty niche built into the rock shortly before the path led into the mountains. It was the safest place possible, because the enemy would have to plough through their entire army first to get here, built over a century ago to accommodate the present and succeeding kings' families in times of war, and hard to find. It had one obvious entrance and a hidden one, one that had been built in laborious work over the course of years, a secret passage through the granite nobody knew of. Yes, they were safe here...

Still, Éomer rather wished they were sitting in the main-cave along with their friends, talking with them to keep the fear at bay, mocking death and not letting panic rule over their emotions. He had tried to talk to their uncle about his idea, but King Théoden did not have the mind to listen to a 13-year old boy then when he had to prepare for battle. So all they were left with to keep them company was a grim-looking guard who did not speak with them at all. Inwardly, Éomer suspected his uncle had left the man with his niece and nephew in order to take care of them in case the battle went ill. Now_, that_ was a truly frightening thought! He shoved it into the back of his mind and concentrated on his sister instead, who was sitting in the back of the rectangular room with her back to the wall, hugging herself.

"Éomer?"

He ripped himself out of his brooding stupor and fought to think of some encouraging words.

"We are safe here, Éowyn. No enemy has ever breached the Deeping Wall… let alone entered the Keep! Nothing will happen to us… and if they'd ever get in here, _I_ would kill them!" Unwittingly, the fingers of his right hand had been playing with the hilt of his sword the whole time, and now he drew it and waved it around in a few exercise moves, meant to calm down his sister... as well as himself. It was his first real sword, a heavy, beautifully worked piece of Rohirric craftsmanship with bronze horses rearing on both sides of the blade. His uncle had given it to him only a few months ago on his thirteenth birthday, with a slight smile and the words that he was a man now, a true warrior with his own sword, ready to defend the Mark against all its enemies. But even then, his great joy had been mingled with a touch of sadness, as most things had been in his adolescence so far: usually, swords were passed on as an heirloom within each family from one generation to the next, and he had always looked forward to one day carrying his father's… but it had been lost in his ill-fated last battle, never to be retrieved. Chances were that some filthy orc was carrying the noble blade into battle now against those it had been made to protect. A depressing thought. A thought that filled him with rage.

Pushing back the melancholic thoughts about their once happy family, Éomer had to admit that he still had been incredibly proud over his new possession. '_Guthwine_', he had called the shining blade, as every sword needed to be named by its owner, and he had hardly been able to wait until he could show it to his lower-standing friends, who had had a hard time at hiding their jealousy. He had found it almost impossible to lay it down in fact, until Théodred had jested it would stay glued to his hand for all eternity lest he'd sheath it every now and then. Always having a sword ready for battle, his older cousin had smirked, would maybe impress his enemies later on, but still pose a serious hindrance in his future interactions with the ladies. Everybody had laughed and Éomer's cheeks had flushed with embarrassment, even as his cousin – having noticed his discomfort - had ruffled his hair and proclaimed that he could already see 'Guthwine' becoming the most sought-after possession of the Mark, as it would certainly become the heirloom of one of the greatest warriors of Rohan. That remark had turned Éomer's face an even deeper shade of crimson, but still, the memory of that day was something he treasured.

Surfacing from his memory, Éomer heard his sister snort at his boastful last remark. Even at her young age, she hated being treated like a dumb child who knew nothing of the ways of life, especially by her always well-meaning, but still sometimes patronising brother. All she ever wanted to hear was the truth, no matter how grim. Somehow, that little annoyed sound made Éomer feel bad, and he picked himself up to walk over to her and, sitting down next to her on the cold ground, put an arm around her shoulder in a protective, comforting way.

"I _would_ protect you from them, little bird," he whispered, his eyes on the guard who had turned his back on them. "For as long as I could. But it will not be necessary. They will not come in here. Théodred and our uncle will drive them away. They are great warriors. And there are also Elfhelm, and Grimbold, and Gamling..." He gave her a slight squeeze... and jumped as he suddenly found himself looking into the adult Éowyn's eyes.

"Aye, brother... you would protect me with your life. I know that." There was a smile in her stormy eyes, a rare enough sight, and one he had not expected after all the accusations he had heard from her in the wake of his captivity.

'_But Elfhelm said they had been Gríma's doing. That they were not real…'_ Was _this_ reality? She felt real enough in his arms as he returned the hearty embrace and then looked at her, still insecure.

"Éowyn… I must apologise. I never meant to keep you like a beast in a cage. I never wanted to--"

"Hush, mighty king of Rohan!" Her smile widened as she placed a finger on his lips to close them. "It was but in your imagination. I never said that, and I never thought that, either… and I know that everything you ever did was in order to keep me safe. I would have never thought about complaining to Wormtongue about you, and I never thought that your injury was well deserved. I valued your protectiveness and care, brother. I truly did. It made me realise each day just how much you loved me. Wormtongue has always been a notorious liar, and we both have known it for years. The snake wanted to break you, and since you're a fierce and valiant warrior with hardly any deficiencies, he took the only approach he knew would work. Your only vulnerable spot: your honour… and your kin. He knew exactly where to pry his greedy little fingers in to hurt you the most. Nothing that he said was true. You _must_ believe me, Éomer!" Her hand caressing his face, she whispered into his ear: "_I love you, brother_."

For a while, they just held each other, comforting each other, and it was as it had been in their youth, a good, pure feeling of closeness and understanding. Finally, Éowyn looked up again and began to free herself from his arms. A knowing smile played around the corners of her mouth as she stood up and motioned for him to follow.

"There is someone I would like you to meet…"

----------------------------

"They are coming! Marshal Elfhelm! They are already in the valley!"

The words tore through the void Éomer had been drifting through for a time-span he could not name. They confused him. Elfhelm? Elfhelm was outside, at their uncles side, fighting! What-- He woke with a start, just as the heavy oaken door was f thrown open and a breathless Arnhelm burst into the room. The voice, he noticed as he fought to open his eyes for a brief moment, belonged to him.

"Marshal Elfhelm--"

"Arnhelm!" his friend's alarmed voice came from the other side. The chair the marshal had been sleeping in was pushed back against the wall as Elfhelm jumped to his feet. "What are you saying? They are in the valley? But how--"

"Approaching the ramp. It won't be long before they'll be here. We repaired the gate as best we could in the few hours, but--"

"Why were the fires not lit? They should have alerted us long ago!"

"Harrdrás said he tried, but the storm was too strong. He hardly made it back before the enemy reached his outpost."

Elfhelm shook his head in helpless frustration as he turned to the king. Was _everything_ against them? "We must make for the caves, son, and fast!" Again addressing the esquire, Elfhelm went for the litter that was leaning at the wall. They had found it in the vacated healing room and taken it to the king's room where they now had good use for it. Éomer did not look to the marshal as if he was ready to take even one more step. "Summon two men to carry the king down, and make it fast."

Éomer's first instinct was to object, but he did not have to hear into his body for long before he had to admit – grudgingly – that he would have to swallow this indignity as well. Even sitting up by himself turned out to be a major battle. Cursing at his ineptitude, he scrambled pathetically with his feet to push himself up, but it was Elfhelm's strength that finally helped him to accomplish this deed. It was another fight to make it onto the litter.

"Let me help you, Sire," a female voice came from behind. The healer. She laid an arm around Éomer's waist and transferred some of his weight onto her shoulders. At last, they had the sweat-soaked king ready for transportation. Éomer just lay back and squeezed his eyes shut against the searing pain in his side as the esquire entered again, this time with two more men in his wake who immediately rushed over to their marshal.

"The men are ready, marshal. Battle will soon commence." He cleared his throat. "They are asking for you, my lord…"

"I am coming." Elfhelm motioned his men to take up the litter and rushed forth to hold open the door that led to the secret tunnel into the vast system of tunnels and caves. "Is it too late to man the wall of the Keep? I want Gríma to pay dearly for breaching the gate."

"We have five men with crossbows on the wall. You want them to stay there, or shall I send more?"

"Send five more men up. This might be our best chance to decimate them before we engage in head-on battle. But I want all of them off that wall _before_ the gate is breached! We cannot afford to lose even one more man! Tell them to be careful! Also tell the rest to take up their positions in the caves. Make haste! I will join you in a moment!"

"Aye, Marshal!" Arnhelm gave his superior a curt nod and raced out of the room, shouting his orders even before he had reached the men. The flurry of frenzied activity filled the corridors of the fortress as the men left the room with their wounded king. Elfhelm eased open the door with one hand and kept it open until they had passed, then grasped his friend's hand as he was carried past.

"Éomer, I need to go. Árdwyne and my men will bring you to the hidden room – and we don't have time for your protest! You are in no condition to fight!" he added as he saw the king open his mouth for what he thought had to be objection. Éomer's voice was low with weakness, but determined.

"No protest. But I need a sword. If it comes to the worst..." He did not finish his sentence, but the meaning was clear. Elfhelm shuddered and just did not want to think about that possibility any further.

"Aye…I understand... And you shall have one. I'll order one of my men to-"

"Spare your man, my lord," the healer injected eagerly. Had she understood what Éomer wanted the sword for? Or was she thinking that he wanted it for the eventuality that an enemy actually made it this far into the caves? She, of all the people here, should see best that – in his current condition – the king would not even be able to fend off an orc-babe! "I can get it for him. I know where the armoury is, and I know where to find the hidden room. I shall need no guide. Let me do it."

"Very well, Árdwyne. Go then. But I need you back with me afterwards. You said you knew what to do with a bow."

She paled, but there was also a grim expression to her face Elfhelm liked. It was the face of a warrior. The gender did not matter: hers was the mindset they needed to have. After all, it had been a shieldmaiden who had slain Sauron's mightiest weapon, and if the people of Rohan wanted to survive, each and every one of them had to do their duty. In the battle they were faced with, every man - or woman - would count...

"Aye, my lord marshal. I know that well enough. I shall be back before long." She left. Sighing and hating himself for having to recruit women, Elfhelm turned back to the wounded king to give him a curt, reassuring nod.

"We shall see each other again soon, my friend... provided the Gods are in the mood." He turned to his men and motioned them to go. "Quick, take him down!" A moment later, his fast steps echoed through the corridors as he ran towards the ruckus that had begun in the hall behind the main gate.

-----------------------------

"They repaired the gate, Master. But it will not hold for long." The orc's face was barely recognisable under the thick crust of ice, but now that its prey was finally within reach, the creature no longer seemed to care. Blood-lust was beginning to fill up every fibre of its being. Killing was what it had been bred for, and killing was where it found its greatest satisfaction.

Wormtongue had felt truly miserable for the last hours in the storm, too, frozen to the core, but the sight of the Hornburg straight ahead - even if it was but a faint shadow in the whirling snow and twilight - was enough to renew his strength one last time. The prospect of finding shelter from the elements alone was something to look forward to, even if they were headed straight into battle. But he was not worried about the battle. He had his strategy down, and the counsellor harboured no doubts that his host of Uruk-hai would tear into the few remaining refugees like starved wargs into a flock of sheep.

He narrowed his eyes as his gaze swept over the walls, searching for enemies, but the elements were against him. Still, it was safe to count that they were there, likely armed with range weapons, just waiting to pick his army off one by one. They had found the tracks of two guards from the watchtowers that marked the final approach to the fortress, had in fact almost captured the first one before he had made it onto his horse to alarm his trapped brethren. Why he hadn't simply lit the fire was beyond Gríma, but all the better for them. Maybe the storm had been blowing too hard for the flames to catch. Very well. Thus their prey would have less time to prepare for the fight. There could not be many left waiting for them. It would be over quick.

As he looked on, there was sudden movement at the gate, as it was opened and a herd of horses came charging down the ramp towards them. Excited bellows were exchanged behind him, and weapons raised. His Uruks were eager to kill something, and this was the first visible prey. It would be good for their morale. Get them into the right mood. He raised his arm in signal – and lowered it in an abrupt chopping motion. Arrows and bolts were released from bowstrings hundredfold, whispering death as they raced towards the fleeing horses. Just before they hit, their great grey leader, having almost reached the end of the ramp, jumped down on the inside of the curved ascend, as if he knew of the deadly hail coming their way. The others followed him in a brown and grey wave, and the arrows passed them by without hitting a single target.

"Reload!"

The horses charged in a parallel line along the Deeping Wall, away from them. Already, they were almost out of reach and quickly disappearing in the whirling snow. Again, Wormtongue held up his arm, but this time to call his army back. As much as this first little failure angered him, there was no use in wasting their precious arrows on horses. They would need it for worthier targets soon enough…

"The horses made it past them!" Thor watched the great white cloud of whirling snow disappear behind the next ridge. To him, it was a good omen. They had not even lost a single horse. He didn't have to turn his head to know that the marshal was approaching him and kneeling down next to him on the wall of the Keep. Stone and the elements protected them from the enemy's eyes.

"How many, what do you say?"

"Visibility is very poor," the scout admitted. "But well over a hundred still, I would say. Look, part of them is heading for the other entrance now." He pointed a finger at a dark shape that separated from the main body of the advancing army to make for the breach in the wall in the deepening twilight.

"They'll soon learn that admittance there comes at a higher price than they're willing to pay," Elfhelm growled, hoping that the two men he had left to guard what was left of the tunnel would suffice. It would be a catastrophe if the Uruks were able to come at them from both sides. But why was he fretting? They had thoroughly blocked that tunnel. Two men were more than enough to hold it.

"Come, snake," he whispered, taking his own bow from his shoulder and fetching an arrow from the quiver, laying it on the string. Maybe, if he was lucky; fate would present him with a chance to kill Rohan's bane himself …

----------------------

The procession of ghoulish creatures came to a halt at the foot of ramp, where Wormtongue raised a hand and turned his horse. As he faced his army, he was satisfied to find that bloodlust already glowered in their predatory eyes. Despite the hardships that lay behind them, they were now eager to fight.

"Listen, my fighting Uruk-hai! This is it – the reason why we have been fighting the elements for the last few days with barely a break. We wanted to chase down the accursed human filth that killed your brethren by the thousands, and avenge them. I promised you a bloodbath… a feast. And you shall have it, right now! The enemy, or rather, what is left of them, is waiting for us behind those walls. Before last year, the people of Rohan thought that these walls could never be breached by any foe… but your brethren already accomplished this unthinkable deed. They not only breached them, but they even made it all the way into the Hornburg, and I expect you to do no less. Even more, I expect you to find these cowards in their hiding places in the caverns, where they will no doubt try to evade battle altogether. You shall find them, you shall draw them out of their holes and you shall tear them apart! I have no further orders for you, for I know that you are as anxious as I am to make them suffer! There is only one demand I have: Do not kill the king if you find him there, and do not kill their leader, either. I suspect it must be a marshal. You will recognise him when you find him. Bring them to me alive. I have some personal business with both of them before we shall dispose of that filth. Everyone else you find beyond those walls – is yours! Go now, mightiest of the orc-race! Do what you do best – make the enemy fear you!"

A black wave of deadly accurate steel, raw power, sharp fangs and ferocious hate and hunger swept towards the scantily repaired main gate with a terrifying roar and all the single-minded purpose of one being with a hundred heads…

--------------------------

"Faster! Faster!"

"Why have all the torches been lit? Wouldn't it be better if we waited for them in the dark where they couldn't see us?"

"Didn't you hear the marshal? The disadvantage would be ours. Orcs can see well in the dark, and they would smell us, too. – Sire? Sire, are you still with us?"

A grunt was all Éomer was able to answer. His thoughts were flowing apart as they hastened down the steep, narrow stairs of the secret entrance that went down from the back of the Hornburg into the caves. Twice they had almost let him fall when they bumped the litter into the wall, but now they had reached the main system and raced through the widening hall of glistening stalactites and stalagmites while the sound of the beginning battle echoed to them from the other entrance, reflected by the stone walls and multiplied, evoking the notion of a far greater number of enemies in the narrow tunnels than was actually coming at them. Still, they were seriously outmatched. What _was_ coming at them was bad enough…

--------------------------

"Éomer? Here she is. You know her, don't you?"

He had been following his sister for a while now, not even surprised that they were in his tent again all of a sudden. Éowyn had pulled the flap aside for him and was waiting with a half-smile for him to pass through. Just what was his younger sibling up to? Knotting his eyebrows at her, Éomer risked a glance into the room… and froze. The delicate figure inside had her back turned on him, but all he had to see in order to recognise the artfully bound buckskin tunic and the flowing golden hair. The sight left him breathless and his eyes widened as he stared back at his sister. She was still smiling… and nodding for him to proceed.

"She wants to tell you something, brother… Go ahead. Fear not."

---------------------

In the darkness of the narrow tunnel that led from the eastern part of the main cavern to the side-entrance, something could be heard on the other side of the barricade. Something heavy was scraping over the rock, dragging itself up. Muffled grunting echoed in the narrow space. The two heavily armed Rohirrim left to guard the tunnel raised their crossbows… as a dark shape blocked out the last remainders of the fading daylight…

-------------------

Another turn. Deeper into the mountain. The torches were getting fewer and the spaces between them greater, the twilight deeper. The sounds of the battle sounded like they were coming to them all the way from the other end of the Ered Nimrais. A light draft of fresh air indicated that the secret path into the mountains behind the Hornburg was not so far away anymore. Harrdás, the man at the foot-end of the litter, turned another corner and saw with relief the roughly worked entrance to the last refuge. The room had been added to the system over a hundred years ago as the safest place to keep the kings' families in the times of battle. Now it would accommodate the king himself.

"My lord, we are there." No answer from Éomer. No reaction. Eomund's son kept his eyes closed, and no movement below the blanket they had spread over him indicated that he was still with them as the two men carried their burden over to the stand where they finally set the occupied litter down. "Careful, Fraccas. Let's not wake him. Good." They straightened and looked down on their fallen king in concern.

"I have a bad feeling about him…"

"Éomer is strong. And I firmly believe that he will come out of this even stronger." Harrdrás looked around in the confined room to see whether everything was set for the eventuality of a siege. Not that their marshal was counting on one. Erkenbrand's men had to come to their aid momentarily now, and Wormtongue probably knew that. He would force his way into the fortress with all ferocity he could muster. Harrdrás thought of the preparations Elfhelm had ordered and prayed to Eru that they would suffice to keep the upper hand over the foul flood that was about to invade Helm's Deep once again.

Satisfied with what he found, the wiry, wild-looking man turned to his taller subordinate.

"I have to go back. You stay here with him. Guard him with your life… although if they come this far, there will be nothing left to do anymore. If more than one's coming your way, kill him. Make it fast and painless … for they won't. " A deep breath as he turned to go. "May the Valar have mercy on our souls."

-----------------------------

"They are coming through! Faster! Faster!"

The retreat was still organised, but hurried nonetheless as the men spurted through the empty corridors of the fortress, their steps reflected by the granite walls. Behind them, the main-gate shook under another heavy blow. An ominous creaking sound could be heard as wood planks gave way under raw Uruk-hai power.

Elfhelm raced down the narrow stairs three steps at a time. He had been on the wall of the Keep and managed to down three attackers before a hail of arrows had forced him to take cover. Others had been similarly successful, but now Gríma had organised his defence, and while a dozen of his half-orcs were pounding and throwing themselves against the weakened gate, the rest had their crossbows pointed upward and there was no way for anybody to stick his head over the wall without being shot at. They had inflicted all the damages that had been possible from this position. Time to retreat to the main site of the coming battle. Thor, at the back of his group, was locking the heavy oaken doors behind them, even though they all knew that they would not stop the nightmarish creatures on their heels for long. They had rehearsed the scenario time and time again over the last hours, and agreed that even what little time those barricades would grant them would be worth the risk of slowing down their own retreat.

The main cave. They reached it just as a thunderous inferno from above indicated that Grima's army was entering the fortress.

"Thor?" Elfhelm slipped on the wet rocks and almost fell as he ground to a halt, looking for his second-in-command. A faint, telltale scent reached his nostrils and made him worry again. They had prepared a nasty little surprise for their enemy with the oil they had found in the Hornburg. Most of it they had poured into the shallow pools of water to ignite it as soon as the main body of the enemy waded through it, but in some parts of the vast system of caves and narrow tunnels, they had used it quite extensively. Their task was to draw the approaching Uruks to those parts and then… But what if they smelled the trap? Were Uruks intelligent enough to understand what their enemies were up to? Of course, once the first fires were lit, their sense of smell would be seriously impaired by the heavy smoke, but what if they retreated before that? And what if the smoke became so thick that his own men would suffocate in it? So many 'ifs', and no alternative. They'd have to try their best and see.

"Marshal?" Fire reflected in the scout's dark eyes. Elfhelm gave him a short nod and clasped hands with the man who had proven himself on this mission in acknowledgement of his skill and loyalty. He and half of the men that were left would take the other tunnel that led into the mountains to defend. Would they see each other again?

"Eru is with those that help themselves, Thor. We _will _defeat them."

"Aye, Marshal." A very, very faint trace of a smile in the guarded face. "With you as our leader, I have no doubt of that." He returned the nod, and, woken from his reverie by the thunder of another door giving way to the advancing enemy, motioned for his men to follow him into the shadows…


	22. The Last Battle

**Chapter 22: The Last Battle**

* * *

The cowards were fleeing. They were actually too afraid to engage in combat! This was most unusual for the Rohirrim, Wormtongue pondered while he strode through the corridors of the Hornburg in haste, his glance sweeping the surroundings for possible traps. There were none that he could see. Apart from the locked doors that took his Uruks only moments to tear down, he had been able to detect no means of defence whatsoever he had been able to detect. A look into the armoury had revealed that they had started on turning pieces of firewood into sharp stakes, presumably to be used for deadly traps, but something had made them abandon their plan... or maybe there had not been enough time. How great had the advantage been they had paid for so dearly on the mountain path? A few hours? Half a day? Or less than that, had something delayed them in the mountains? Whatever it was, this was not what Wormtongue had expected to find. After the first damage the riders of the Mark had inflicted on his army on the ramp, they had done nothing but running away. A most unusual strategy, and unheard of from a people that, above all, held honour in such high esteem.

"They were here for a while," one of the half-orcs growled as they tore down the door behind which the royal chambers lay. A fire flickered in the fireplace over which an iron bowl hung. The bed had been used, and there were blood-stained bandages laying on the table close by. A grim smile spread over Wormtongue's face. So the king was indeed still here. He had not become a victim of the elements. Very well. Personal revenge was still a possibility.

"They're not in the fortress, Master." Another Uruk-captain approached him from behind, tensed, angered, barely able to restrain its eagerness to engage in battle. But where was the enemy? To Gríma, it was no question. He knew the system of tunnels and caverns behind the Hornburg very well.

"They will be in the caves, maybe making for the mountains again. But without their horses, we shall be upon them very soon." He turned around and pointed down the corridor where another group of Uruks were throwing themselves against another locked door. "That is the way."

--------------------------------

The noise of approaching steps on the stairs. The sound of heavy bodies moving in the narrow tunnel, the creaking of armour. Distorted shadows dancing menacingly in the flickering twilight. The enemy was coming. So convinced were they of their triumph, they did not even care to advance in silence. What were they thinking? That the sound of their approach alone would send their enemies into a rout? They were not about to panic. They were not about to give in to fear. True to Rohirric tradition, they were prepared to sell their lives at the highest price possible, and as Elfhelm took a brief glance over his shoulder and saw the grim determination he was feeling himself in the expressions of the others he was sharing this tunnel with, he was satisfied. The woman was there, too, a bow in her hand. Her expression was tense, but concentrated. She was trusting him with her fate. They all were laying their lives into his hands. The feeling was both one of great pride – and fear. Was this incredible trust justified? Had he chosen the right strategy? They would know soon.

As the sound of the approaching enemy drew nearer, arrows were dipped into barrels of oil they had brought down. Their tips were wrapped with thin stripes of cloth and soaked up the liquid.

Closer.

The first hulking figures appeared at the foot of the stairs, armed with intimidating looking black blades. Ready to hew their enemies to pieces, and more spilling into the vast main cave behind them. More and more of the foul creatures entered, their crossbows readied and pointing into the flickering twilight ahead, ready to rip the life out of their enemies. Fire reflected in yellow, murderous eyes.

Elfhelm nodded at his men and held the tip of his arrow into the pot with hot ash they had brought along. It flared up at once. In the other tunnel, he knew his Dunlending scout would imitate his actions, and behind him, his men followed his example. A careful glance through a hole in the rock. Still more Uruks poured into their sanctuary, searching for their precious man-flesh. Their army was now a single dark shape with many heads and many voices, snarling, growling, bellowing.

Not yet.

They advanced, all senses strained. The first set foot into the standing water, waded through.

Closer.

_Not yet._

More orcs passed the pool. The main body of the hostile enemy was now inside the cavern, befouling their sanctity; their purity. They fanned out like a group of seasoned hunters, forming a wide line to drive the enemy towards the other entrance, which they knew by now was blocked. Many of them in the water now.

Closer.

Bows were drawn.

One of the Uruks, a particularly huge shape, started forward into their tunnel – and was greeted with a rain of fire-arrows! Two embedded themselves into its chest and forced a pained roar that made the rock reverberate with its fury – but the sound was drowned out as the other arrows found their aim in the pool, and the water erupted into flames!

"Forth, Éorlingas!" Elfhelm had traded his standard short sword he used in mounted attacks for a two-handed broad-sword, and his first strike clove the stumbling Uruk captain apart in the middle. It fell like a hacked tree. Infernal roaring greeted him in the main cave as he ran towards the twisted burning shapes, finishing them off one by one as he went, his men close behind. Ducking to the side, he cleared the way for the archers, and another hail of deadly arrows passed him to find their targets. From the corners of his eyes, he saw more men pouring out of the other tunnel that was held by his scout, but he did not have the time to see how his kinsmen were faring, because a burning silhouette was running towards him, the black blade raised above its head. Less than a heartbeat to anticipate his defence! Whirling and ducking simultaneously, Elfhelm evaded the blow that landed in the rock next to him with flying sparks, and thrust his sword into the creature's middle with his entire body-weight behind the strike, skewering his foe. He had barely drawn the blade out again when five more came charging his way.

----------------------------

"Kill them! Kill them all!"

Behind his escort of four of the strongest Uruk-hai, Wormtongue stood on the last step of the stairs as everything in front of him went up in flames. What were they doing to his wonderful creatures? Aghast, the counsellor stared at the stumbling dark shapes in the sea of fire, and more than one head turned to look at him. The main body of his army was still outside the water, but their losses from the first attack were still considerable.

Frantically searching for new instructions for his hesitant soldiers, Gríma's mouth opened and closed not unlike that of a trout. Nothing would come. Nothing but –

"They're coming from the tunnels! Make for the tunnels and evade the water! Go!" This was unlike anything the Rohirrim had ever done in battle! This was not their style! They were a brave, but simple people, and finer strategy was not their game! And there was this accursed issue of their 'honour', which had always seemed ridiculous to Wormtongue, even when he had still been in King Théoden's service. It went against everything the Rohirrim believed in to hide in the darkness and slaughter their enemies through some foul trick instead of engaging into noble one-on-one battle. So why were they doing so now? And why had he not anticipated this? What did a cornered animal do when there was no space left to retreat ? It attacked! Was this their last charge, the last desperate protest against their inescapable fate? If so, he would squash it underneath his foot!

Moving into the cave behind his escort, Wormtongue watched as his army charged into the tunnels like a great, two-headed black snake, killing everything in its path.

-----------------------------

"They are coming! Fall back! Fall back!" Thor's bow sang, and his arrow left the string to become part of the deadly horizontal rain his men were greeting their attackers with. The first line of Uruks fell, but the others came at them so fast, there was no time to ready their bows again. Letting the weapon fall where he stood, the scout – in the same motion – drew his sword and spun into the wave of black flesh, dealing out a mighty strike with his blade. The two hostile forces crashed into each other like waves against unyielding rock.

-----------------------------

They had made it back into the tunnel, but now the narrow path was filled with hacking, slashing, fighting enemies, and there was no evading the long jagged blades that were scything their way.

"Fall back!" Elfhelm yelled, spinning on his heels and, as the last of his men, charging down the tunnel deeper into the mountain to the next corner, where they had stored a great number of spears. The smoke had invaded the tunnel and made it increasingly harder for them to breathe, let alone see their enemies.

"Marshal! Down!" Arnhelm was turning as were the others, their arms drawn back. As Elfhelm dove to the ground, rolling and landing on his feet, a dozen spears simultaneously passed over his head and felled the orcs on his heels. A moment later, he had his sword in his hands again and swung it against the first creature that cleared the fallen. Sparks flew as it hit metal. The impact almost knocked the weapon from his hand and numbed his fingers. His arm was seized and almost squashed with brute force, and a foul stench invaded his senses as gaping jaws wide enough to swallow his head whole opened before him. His reaction was pure instinct, not time to think. The left hand to the hilt of his dagger, a vicious upwards-cut. The unarmoured orc was laid open, its innards falling in a steaming pile to the ground. It sank to its knees, and the battle surged over it like a tidal wave.

---------------------------

"Thor! Behind you!"

The scout rolled, not even taking the time to look over his shoulder, and a blade scythed through the space he had occupied just a heartbeat before. Yellow eyes sparkled with infernal bloodlust as the creature charged after him – and was stopped by a spear through its throat. A dark gush of blood spurted from its mouth as it fell backwards and disappeared in the smoke..

Another dark shape in front of him. Thor's sword arm cut upwards, gutting the orc, and as its sword fell to the ground and the creature clasped at the wide gash in its middle, he dealt it a mighty blow that severed its ugly head.

A moment to breathe, but as soon as the hot air reached his lungs, he broke into a violent coughing fit. The smoke was so dense now, it threatened to suffocate him, making his eyes burn and water, blurring his vision. He was not even sure anymore in which direction he was headed, back towards the main cave or deeper under the mountain.

Another silhouette was moving his way. Friend or foe? He held the sword raised, but dared not to strike. Orc or friend? Squeezing his eyes shut to clear his vision, Thor stepped backwards, hoping for the smoke to clear before he'd have to decide.

The silhouette solidified into the figure of an advancing Uruk, and he readied himself for the strike, even though his shoulder muscles were slowly starting to burn with fatigue. There were just too many of these accursed things! They were killing them by the dozens, but still more kept on coming, and every man they lost hurt them more grievously than the Uruk-hai losing ten. With a battle cry, Thor met his foe's blade – and was pushed backwards by the raw strength of the enemy, their swords caught between them. There was no withstanding the Uruk's power; he had to rely on his greater agility. Suddenly jumping backwards, he freed himself of the orc's hold and corrected the position of his sword by a mere fraction – enough for the creature to skewer itself through its own forward momentum.

Breathing heavily and again coughing from the smoke, the scout withdrew his blade, frantically scanning the way before him for danger. The strike from behind came unexpected.

-----------------------

Almost his entire host was fighting in the tunnels now, a place Gríma did not intend to enter until the last of their foes had been slain. They were still putting up grim resistance, he had to admit grudgingly, more than he would have given those stubborn peasants credit for, and his fingers tensed around the hilt of his dagger. Cursing at himself for not bringing along a better weapon with more reach, he scanned his surroundings and found that there were no Rohirrim left in the main cave. They were either dead, floating lifelessly in the shallow pools of water, or had retreated into the tunnels from where distinct battle noises could still be heard. There was no danger left here, and so he sent his escort ahead to help their brethren.

Smoke bit into his eyes and he had to hold his sleeve in front of his mouth to breathe in the stinking, hot air as he passed through the fallen in search for a more suitable weapon and finding it in a short, but well-balanced sword of a fallen Rohir close by. He was just weighing it in his hand when movement at the entrance of the closest tunnel claimed his attention. His first instinct was to run, but then he saw the towering shape of one of his Uruks driving the dark-haired warrior backwards into the cave, and he realised the opportunity. He knew this man. He was part Dunlending. With the skills he possessed, he could have been a great help to his subdued brethren, so what business did he have fighting for the other side? He had to be punished!

Silently, stealthily, Wormtongue approached the still fighting combatants, just in time to reach them when the filthy traitor had brought the orc to his knees. The sword felt good in his hands as he lashed out with all the strength he could muster. He had never learnt more than just the basics of the art of swordplay, but there was no skill necessary for what he was doing. His blade went through the leathern armour into the soldier's back where it met resistance. Still, it was enough to down the traitor, and Gríma was about to delivery the death-strike – when a new sound reached his ears. Shouting. Steps of many men. _Men!_ It came from the stairs! He spun around, his wounded foe forgotten as all blood drained from his face.

It was not possible! It could not be! For once, all he had been dreaming of was in the middle of becoming reality – and now, through a trick, he would be denied his triumph at the last moment? This was not fair! But the sounds from the stairs left no doubt – Rohirrim reinforcements were coming to aid their brethren!

Drawing the collar of his cloak tight around his pallid face, Wormtongue hastily scurried through the carnage of the battle, but it was neither of the tunnels that he sought. There was another way, one these accursed Strawheads would not know of that would lead him safely into the mountains. He would then return to the safety of his lair in the Misty Mountains and think of a better, fool-proof plan to execute his wrath on the people of Riddermark and their king. And this time, he would come at them with an army mighty enough to lay all their lands to waste... The hidden pathway was not far. If he moved quickly, no one would ever know that he had been down here at all. There it was already, nothing more than a narrow, black hole in the rock, hardly wide enough to accommodate him as he went down on his hands and knees to climb in. Shadow swallowed him as the noise from the new arrivals filled the cave...

-----------------------------

Elfhelm was a hardened warrior, but he was not used to fighting with a broadsword, and he began to seriously ask himself whether he hadn't committed a serious error of judgement by choosing that weapon over his usual shorter one. While whatever he hit with his vicious thrusts would stay down, the massive weight was beginning to take its toll on him, and it became increasingly harder to fend of the attacks that just kept coming at him from all directions. Twice the orc-blades had already found him when he had not been able to spin around fast enough, and while his armour had deflected most of their force, they _had _penetrated. So far there were only scrapes, but it was only a matter of time until a strike would cut through enough to maim him.

Their time was running out, Elfhelm thought as he saw another man fall under a Uruk-attack from the corners of his eyes. There was not much to see anymore, no overview of how many of his brave soldiers were still left, because all was obstructed by the dense, dark smoke that choked them and also was putting out the fires. It made the battle even more difficult, because it was impossible to distinguish friend from foe until the dark silhouette was already very close. Another shadow lunged at him and Elfhelm – with burning muscles - raised the sword and swung it in a half-circle through the air – and slipped in a puddle of blood. The velocity of his movement flung him forcefully on his side, and the sword clattered away.

The Uruk came to slithering halt and pointed his crossbow down – when a white-feathered shaft punched into its meaty chest. Roaring in pain, it dropped the weapon and glowered into the twilight of the tunnel from where the arrow had come. Frantically rolling away from the towering orc, Elfhelm scrambled to his feet and dove for the sword as his enemy remembered him. Gaping jaws opened to let out an enraged bellow – just when another arrow pierced its thick neck, burying itself in the creature all the way to the feathered end. Gurgling, it took a staggering step forward – and walked right into Elfhelm's mighty swing. The huge body tumbled to the ground, bleeding blackness.

Breathing heavily, Elfhelm leaned on his sword and turned his head to see who had come to his aid. He caught a fleeting glimpse of fire reflecting on flaxen hair, a body too slender to belong to any of his men – but then there was movement beyond the curtain of smoke again, and he swivelled...

... but it was no orc. It was a man, clad in full mail, his armour skilfully crafted and betraying his high rank. A man not part of his éored! What-

"Garulf?" He blinked, hardly able to believe his watering eyes as he let his sword sink to his side to stare at Marshal Erkenbrand's second-in-command. "Garulf! At last!"

"Marshal Elfhelm, Lord of Eastfold! What are you doing so far off your own territory, laying our precious fortress to ruin?" The warrior, a broadly-built, sturdy man about his age, walked up to him with an astonished expression on his face as he scanned the surroundings. The steps of more men could be heard behind him. Had they really made it? Was the nightmare over once and for all? "We came as fast as we could. Your messengers reached us yesterday evening, and we set out immediately, but that accursed storm slowed us down. I was already afraid we'd come too late and find nothing but Uruk-hai waiting for us here, but... it looks to me as if you did just fine by yourself, Marshal! How many of you are there?"

"We were twenty-five. I cannot say yet how many of them have survived." Elfhelm wiped his brow, but the sweat kept on burning in his eyes.

"Twenty-five!" The Westmark-soldier shook his head in disbelief as he performed a slow circle on his heels to scan the carnage of the battle. "We had to literally wade through dead orcs in the main cave. You did all that damage with only twenty-five men?" He smirked as he let his eyes wander once again over the dead orc to the marshal's feet and Elfhelm's grimy, smut-and sweat-smeared face and again shook his head. "You are an animal, Elfhelm! A beast! In the future, orcs will run when they merely hear your name!" His hand landed heavily on the warrior's shoulder.

"I would hope so," Elfhelm rebuked, still trying to catch his breath from the effort that lay behind him. "If we never see the filth again, it will still be too early." An appreciative nod. "You are a sight for sore eyes, Garulf, if I may say so! I was just about to give up." A quick glance over his kinsman's shoulders revealed more men than he could count in a rush. "You look disgracefully clean! Did you have to give battle at all?"

"Oh, we slew a couple of these foul things ourselves, brother, we just managed to take better care of our armour. Not everybody revels in taking a bath in the enemy's blood like you and your men. We did not come all the way just to bear witness to your glory." The hand slid down on Elfhelm's mail-shirt to stop at one of the cuts. Garulf narrowed his eyes. "You are hurt."

Elfhelm shrugged it off.

"Scrapes. It is nothing." He re-sheathed his sword and motioned for the few remaining men of his éored to follow him. "Let us find the others. There may be men who'll need help urgently. Árdwyne?"

"A moment, my lord Marshal!" A moment later, the young healer was at his side, her bow exchanged for a stuffed pouch she had filled with everything she had found in the healing room of the fortress earlier. She was far more eager to tend now to wounds than to inflict them. Nevertheless, Elfhelm gave her an appreciate nod.

"You handled yourself well, girl. You saved my life. Thank you."

She cast her eyes to the ground.

"Anyone could have done it. It was a coincidence that I was standing there. The creature was hard to miss."

"Don't belittle your deed. I felt bad enough about having to drag you into this battle, and this is how you repay me, woman!" He laughed as he turned to the waiting Garulf. "A woman slaughtered the Witchking of Angmar, and now another woman saves the Lord of the Eastmark! It deems me we should recruit more women to our éoreds in the future. They are made of stern stuff!" Laying an arm around Árdwyn's slender shoulders, he led her through the cordon of warriors along the tunnel back into the main cave. "I'm afraid I'll have to ask one more deed of you, although you must be as weary as we all..."

"You don't have to ask, Marshal," she gave back. "I'll be glad to be of help to your men. They fought for us all, not just for you... or the king."

"The king!" Garulf exclaimed as he followed them, kicking the carcass of an orc on the way to see whether he was truly dead. "How is the king faring? Could you free him?"

"Aye, we freed him. He is wounded, but safe. We brought him to the secret room. No orc made it past us, I'm sure of that. He slept through the whole battle. I'm certain that will be something to tease him with in the future. He will hate it!" His words were light, even if Elfhelm did not feel like jesting when he came to a halt at the mouth of the tunnel, forcing himself to look at the corpses in the shallow water and on the wet rocks. The flames were dying down, and the light in the cavern was sparse enough to hide the most gruesome details of the carnage. How many of his men had survived?

"Thor? Arnhelm?" There was movement further back, but through the smoke he could not make it out. "All who can still walk, move over here, so that I'll see you're still alive!" As the healer passed him to look where her help would be needed, he wiped his brow again with a grimy glove and then turned back to their rescuers, heavily leaning on his sword. Now that the danger was over, he found that every single bone in his body was aching. "How many men did you bring?"

"Fifty." Garulf raised an appreciative eyebrow at his comrade. " There were hardly enough orcs left to keep them satisfied when we got here. My respect, Marshal Elfhelm! I think you defeated them long before we came to finish them off."

He silenced as silhouettes materialised through the smoke, and with great relief, the Lord of the Eastmark recognised several of his trusted riders among them.

"Marshal Elfhelm? Please, come quickly!" It was the healer's voice, and it sounded distressed as she burst from the other tunnel, her face grimy with sweat and caked with ash. It cut through his initial feeling of relief like a knife. "It is your friend..."

Elfhelm's heart missed a beat. No. No, it could not be! Not Thor!

"My – Thor?" Garulf was forgotten as he fastened his steps to follow Árdwyne to the mouth of the narrow path. In the flickering light of a burnt-down torch, he saw a shape lying strewn across the way, the healer kneeling beside him. "Eru, no! Thor?"

Pain-filled black eyes looked at him as he kneeled down next to his fallen kinsman, the healer on the other side. An image that reminded him of how he had found Éomer and which still burnt in his mind. How bad was the scout's wound? He could not see it yet.

"Coward got me in the back," his comrade managed to say through clenched teeth. "It's not too bad, but still...!"

"Hold still, I need to look at it. Marshal, help me to get the armour off him." Together, they managed to open the clasps and ties, and Elfhelm hissed as he saw the deep gash on his scout's back. The healer sighed as she probed the wound and then looked up, tired, but relieved. "It looks worse than it is. The bone apparently stopped the blade. Let's bring him into the healing room where I can tend to the wound appropriately." She turned to the fallen man. "Can you walk ?"

"I will help you," Elfhelm offered, already slipping an arm under his friend's shoulders to pull him up. "Just your luck that the one time you let down your guard, it's only a weakling of an orc that gets you. Had it still been in possession of its full strength-"

"It was no orc, Elfhelm," Thor hissed, swaying as the marshal put him on his feet, his pained gaze meeting the other man's. "It was Gríma himself!"

"Gríma!" A moment of stunned silence.

"Gríma Wormtongue?" Garulf's confused voice came from behind, but Elfhelm barely heard the captain. "But isn't he dead?"

"We wish..." The marshal's glance darted frantically across the cavern, over the corpses in the water and on the rock. Nowhere could he see the counsellor's familiar black clothes and scruffy form. And he had not seen him in the tunnel he and his men had been defending either. His stomach turned to ice. "Where did he turn, Thor? And when?"

"Deeper into the main cave..." the scout hissed, torn between pain and growing concern. "Only moments before our aid arrived. What – nobody stopped him?"

The marshal's face became deadly white as he motioned Garulf to take his place and broke into a run up the tunnel, suddenly no longer sensing the fatigue.

"Oh no... oh no!"

------------------------

Éomer tensed at the sight of the all too familiar figure in the buckskin tunic as she turned around to face him, his skin clammy from discomfort. They were in his tent again. Everything looked the way it had looked when... when... He dared not recall the image of all the blood smeared over her mouth and chin. Of the stark naked shock in her eyes. But then, a miracle happened: Théandran smiled at him. Slowly, with the grace he had admired from when he had first seen her. The grace that made him choose her. Oh, why had Éowyn done this to him? Helpless, he looked over his shoulder, but his sister was gone. They were alone... again.

Uncertain what the situation would lead to, he watched her approach and held his breath. Words of remorse came to his mind, and of shame. Bracing and searching for the words he wanted to say, he opened his mouth... but it was the woman who spoke first, still with the encouraging expression on her face. She came to halt in front of him and looked up.

"I had to speak with you, my lord. Please, tell your sister my sincerest thanks. I was not certain you would want to see me again."

"She did not tell me that it was you..." He began, deeply uncomfortable with the situation. Théandran took his hands, causing him even more discomfort. "If I had known, I ... I can't tell what I would have done. I..." Elfhelm's voice in the back of his mind: '_It never happened!_' This was getting more confusing by the moment.

"I don't even know if you are real." He shook his head, knowing how ridiculous he sounded. But strangely enough, she seemed to understand.

"I am not, my lord. I have never been., and what you believed happened, never did. It was all in your head. Including me. I am nothing but a spirit Wormtongue invoked to torment you. A ghost, if you will." She raised his hands to gently brush her lips over them. "Fear not, Éomer of Rohan - your honour is intact. Your soul has not been tainted. You must forget me now." Her smile deepened at his confusion., his furrowed brow.

"Is this a dream?"

"Yes." She laid a finger on his lips. The touch of her hand sent a little spark through him. "A dream to undo the other dream, the darkness he planted into your head. Light and shadow. We will erase each other, and when you wake up, the memory of both will be gone. I know it is hard to understand." She embraced him now, and he willing let her do so, feeling strangely detached, almost weightless. Great pools of blue went up to meet his gaze.

"Before you forget me, it is my greatest desire to apologise to you for what Gríma made me do. I was too weak to defy him at first, but now, his hold over me is broken. Likewise his command over your memories of your sister and uncle. The king asked me to tell you that. He wanted to come, too, but there is no time for that… for your enemy is approaching." Her gaze went over his shoulder, and for a moment, she seemed to have forgotten about him all along. Had become all senses, as if she was listening to something he wasn't able to pick up yet. And then... he heard it, too. Faint only, in the distance, the echo of stealthy steps, of someone moving who wanted not to be heard. A sudden cold shiver went down Éomer's spine as Théandran's attention turned back to him, and the smile had vanished. All softness had left her face; and he recoiled from its sudden harshness. "My lord, he has come to kill you. _You must wake_!"

A muffled sound behind him, something heavy hitting the ground. Faint gurgling... and then the steps again. Closer now. He swivelled - and saw nothing. Confused, Éomer turned back to the woman still holding his hands – and twitched. There were only eyes now, great blue irises surrounding the black pupils that reflected the disturbing image of a hate-twisted, pale face framed by stringy black hair.

"Éomer, _WAKE UP_!"

The eyes disappeared – but the pale grimace remained, hovering above him like a cruel moon. A silver reflection in front of his eyes.

--------------------------

His hands and knees were chafed and hurt and he had several times run his head into a protrusion, but most of the way lay behind him now. Picking himself up from the ground as the low tunnel opened into a small, rectangular room, Wormtongue braced for the last part of his dangerous journey through enemy territory. He had made it thus far. Nobody had seen him, nobody had tried to stop him. If he was lucky, they did not even know he had been in the caves at all. The path into the mountains was only two more corners away and... but what was this? There was someone standing in front of him on the other side of the room he was about to enter, blocking his escape way. Gríma cowered behind the rock that shielded the entrance of the tunnel from where he had just entered.

He squinted. A warrior. He was not looking his way, but Wormtongue froze nevertheless and moved deeper into the shadow, quickly assessing the situation. What was this man doing here, instead of helping his kin fight further down in the caves, where every man was needed? What was he guarding... or _whom_?

A sudden fit of excitement seized the dark counsellor. But – of course! It could only be one person! And of course this had to be the place they would have brought him to; save behind their lines for as long as there was a single Rohir left who was still able to wield a sword in defence of his king... or so they thought! Valar, would he prove them wrong!

Letting his eyes sweep the rectangular room, Wormtongue saw a pair of legs on the left side of his range of view. A litter had been placed there, and it was no question who was lying on it. The Valar appeared to be in a playful mood today: First they threatened him with the unexpected arrival of Rohirrim reinforcements, only to reward him now with this final opportunity for revenge. A quick glance back to the guard. Still not looking his way. It was now or never!

Quietly drawing his dagger – he had left the sword behind as too complicated to move with in the narrow tunnel - he slipped out of the opening, silent as a shadow. Another quick glance at the litter. Yes, it was indeed the king, and he had his eyes closed and was not moving, so he was either asleep or unconscious... unable to defend himself. Helpless like a new-born... Oh, the opportunity…! Gríma had to bite down on the insides of his cheeks to keep himself from chuckling in surprised delight. So maybe he had lost the battle, but Rohan would be left kingless after all!

Five quick, silent steps brought him to the entrance. The guard never heard him coming up behind as the thin blade slashed through his neck, and he fell to the ground gargling and twitching, and then lay still in an ever-widening pool of blood. Wormtongue paused, exhilaration pulsing through his veins, and listened into the tunnel. There were distant shouts from the battle, steps of someone running far away, but nothing more. He looked back at the unmoving king.

"Now you die, Éomer of Rohan. Here and now, the line of Éorl ends..."

-------------------

"Fraccas? Fraccas!" Elfhelm's lungs were about to burst as he ran up the ascending tunnel in full armour, the faces of the men he passed nothing but a blur. No answer. "Éomer!" The relentless drumming of his heart s made the blood churn through his veins and drowned out all other noises. A distinct notion that someone was following him, but he did not turn around. Up ahead, the flickering light of the torch in the secret chamber already illuminated the heavy darkness. He could see it! Could make out the opposite wall of the chamber already – and then someone stumbled backwards into his view, visible only for the blink of an eye. Dressed in a swinging black coat. For a moment, there was the slightest glimpse of a pale face... and then the shape jumped forwards again. _"Éomer!"_

-------------------------

This was too easy. After all the pain he had had to endure to execute his revenge, his adversary was lying unmoving before him, ready to be slaughtered like an offering in a heathen ritual. Gríma looked down in wonder at the king's sweat-beaded, drawn face, the only thing visible under the heavy blankets covering him, deeply torn by his desire to taste the full glory of this moment, his personal triumph, and the knowledge that he had to leave.

Slowly, almost ceremoniously, he wiped the blade clean of the guard's blood with his sleeve: He wanted for this to be perfect... pure. Below him on the litter, Éomer muttered something in his fever-dream, drawing his eyebrows together in worry. Lines formed on his forehead. It was as if he sensed the imminent danger, but could not wake, the prisoner of his nightmares. The sight of his adversary's discomfort brought another gleeful smile to Wormtongue's face as he raised the dagger, his eyes on the king's neck. Too bad he had not the time to make the king suffer through his last moments. A quick slash through the throat would have to do, for he had to be on his way. The Rohirrim would not leave their king so poorly guarded for long.

Bending over the unconscious man, Gríma felt a brief moment of regret: Too bad Éomer would never know who killed him. Too bad he was not awake to see his death coming. There would only be a few moments of sharp, breathless agony, the taste and feeling of drowning in his own blood, and then it would be over far too quickly. A pity…

He lashed out – and suddenly found himself looking into alert, dark eyes before the world exploded in a blinding white fireball!

No time to think. His bound right arm uselessly twitching against his torso, Éomer left fist shot upwards, blocked the strike and landed with a crunching sound in the pale face above him. The figure yelped and stumbled backwards, a dark gush of blood shooting from his nose through his fingers.

'_Up! Up!'_

His body would not obey as he swung his legs over the left side of the litter, dropping into the narrow gap there like a sack of meal, and landing on his knees. An awkward moment when he went for the dagger under the blanket with the hand he was supporting his weight with and almost fell.

_"Éomer!"_

Elfhelm's distant voice, but it was drowned out by the animalistic yell of his adversary as the dark counsellor jumped towards him, the bloodied face with the wide eyes a grimace of absolute hatred. A blurred notion of white, black and silver. Channelling all his reserves into a last cry of defiance, Éomer's hand with the dagger shot out from under the blanket - just as the impact of Wormtongue's body threw him into the wall behind! Something scraped over his left ear.

Two huge, pale-blue eyes in front of his face, widening in shock. The mouth working, but instead of words a red flood spilling over the already bloodied chin, raining down on him. His hand, still closed around the hilt of the dagger, slippery and sticky too. He held on to it, his gaze locked on Wormtongue's as his enemy slowly sank to his knees, onto him. The sensation of smooth metal pressing against his cheek, trembling as Gríma fought to turn his wrist and stab him in the eye with his last remaining strength, the dying body impaling itself further on the blade in its midst.

He braced – and then let the hand with the hilt make one last, violent jerk upwards. More hot wetness soaking his tunic. The dagger clattered from Gríma's fingers and the wide eyes first narrowed as the pale face contorted into a grimace of pain – and then broke.

"_Éomer! Éomer_!" His friend burst into the room, an expression of absolute horror on his face. More men on his heels. "_Valar, no!"_

'_It is good!'_ he wanted to say. '_The snake is dead!_' he wanted to say as he saw Elfhelm's widened eyes. But he was so far away all of a sudden. So far away...


	23. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

It was the first of March when Éomer finally stepped out of the Golden Hall for the first time after months of illness had confined him to its chambers. Granting the two door-wardens a short nod and then ignoring their curious looks, he stepped forth to the edge of the terrace until he came to a halt in the corner farthest from them, seeking solitude. The first cold gusts that hit him where he stood were almost strong enough to push him back, but the flow of fresh air over his face was still a sensation he relished more than he had ever thought possible. It carried a weak scent of horses and the first hints of spring, a touch of sweetness, a promise of sun and rain, of flowers and green grass - and of healing.

The sweeping view from where he stood was something he had always taken for granted. Never once that he could remember had he paused on the terrace to admire the backdrop of the golden, thatched huts of Edoras, the towering, still snow-capped mountains behind them and below him, for as far as the eye could see, the broad valley of the central Mark and the river Snowbourn stretched all the way to the horizon. The sky was cloudy, the ground still of a muddy brown and after the retreat of the snow and the last year's old grass looked faded and dead, but there was a sense of expectation in the air, the knowledge that all it would take to transform the plains of Rohan into a green paradise once again were a few hours of sunshine.

For the first time ever, the view was stole Éomer's breath and filled his heart with an overwhelming love for his kingdom and its people. His people, whose love and loyalty had helped him survive the worst situation he had ever found himself in in his still young life. He had survived a harsh youth in the Mark, countless battles against overwhelming odds and treason within the halls he had called his home, but only recently had the situation been so hopeless that Éomer had not been able to escape from it by himself. Without the girl of the Meara-tribe, who had alone courageously followed the enemy to finally find and alert Elfhelm, and without his friend's and his éored's selfless acts of courage, he would have fallen prey to Gríma's evil schemes. Finally, there had been the sacrifice of the villagers of Iséndras. Many had died in that selfless act, and while Éomer had instructed Erkenbrand to provide fast and much-needed relief for his fellow kinsmen who had lost everything, he still felt eternally indebted to them. One of these days, when he had sufficiently recovered, he would visit the village again and personally express his gratitude.

Maybe… maybe after his wedding. Yes, most definitely after his wedding. As strong as his urge was, Éomer could not see himself undertaking such a lengthy journey within the next weeks, and with only three months left before the Mark's future queen and her entourage would arrive from Dol Amroth, there was already much to be taken care of by him, too many preparations for the celebrations he'd have to supervise to leave the capital for quite such a long time.

His wedding, yes… it was something that still felt too unreal to him in the wake of the recent incidents to be envisioned, even though the coming Midsummer-festivities would change his life forever. He had not even laid eyes upon his bride yet, nor knew he anything more about her than that she was the daughter of his ally and friend, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth. She was eight years younger than he and – so it had been told to him by the counsellors who had initiated the political match– in beauty even comparable to Queen Arwen of Gondor herself; an heirloom of her partly Elvish ancestry. That was all he knew. The lack of information should have made him nervous, yet the event itself still seemed to lie so far in the future, Éomer could hardly accept it as something that would eventually take place in reality.

Another violent gust blew his hair into his face and forced the King of Riddermark to seek shelter behind one of the wooden columns of the hall to shield himself from the onslaught of the wind. Absent-mindedly, Éomer smoothed the hair out of his eyes and revelled in the normality of the scene unfolding below him: In all of Edoras, his fellow kinsmen were busily going about their business, carrying sacks of various content to wagons, unloading other wagons as horses were led through the streets, the rhythm of their steps a comforting, familiar sound. Their local blacksmith was busy, too, for the sound of a hammer hitting metal carried all the way from the lowest part of the city up to Meduseld. The calm, patient every-day quality of the scene soothed his soul. Normality, yes, even boredom, was something that he welcomed very much these days, as they provided just another little step on the way to becoming the man he had been before his captivity.

A piercing cry rang out from above, and as Éomer craned back his neck to look for its source, he saw the elegant silhouette of a hawk sailing the winds; a perfect picture of freedom that – unbeknownst to him – brought a wistful smile to his gaunt, pale features. How he longed for that freedom to roam his kingdom again, too; for the time when he would sit on Firefoot's back again and hear the wind roar in his ears and the sound of nature awakening after the long siege of winter.

He had never been ill for such a long time, but apparently, the dark counsellor's devilry and his exposure to the elements had done more to him than had been visible at first… and of course, the extended time the bad weather had confined them to the wrecked fortress in the wake of the battle had not helped his recovery, either. Supplied only with minimal provisions, both of food and healing supplies, they had been forced to stay at Helm's Deep for three long weeks before the weather had cleared up enough for Elfhelm to load him onto a wagon under half a dozen blankets and make for Marshal Erkenbrand's domain, where they had stayed for another two weeks. Only then, after Éomer's condition had sufficiently improved to be transported over a longer distance in the middle of winter, had they proceeded on the long way back to Edoras, where he had then utterly collapsed.

And yet it was only now – three months after the incident - that his soul was slowly beginning to come to rest, and at last, his shoulder had begun to heal, too. It was still weak though and he had to carry the arm in a sling, something that – on dark, rainy days, still tended to dampen the king's spirits and led him to ponder his future. Like Sarabande, the healer in the village they had come through during their flight, their local healer thought that the arm would never recover sufficiently for him to ever take up swordplay, let alone do battle again. Too much of the muscle and tendons had been damaged and would not grow back. Her verdict had darkened Éomer's mood for weeks, and even now – after two months of making himself accustomed to the thought – a deep despair occasionally sneaked up on him whenever he least expected it.

Maybe he would do what his friend, King Elessar of Gondor, had suggested during his unexpected visit, and seek out the Elven Lord Elrond at Rivendell, whose reputation as a healer out-shone even that of his son-in-law. A faraway smile played around Éomer's mouth as he remembered how surprised – not to mention touched – he had been when he had woken from another of his fever-dreams at the end of December to find his friend sitting in the chair next to the head-end of his bed, silently reading a book with Elvish writing on the cover. Of course, his very first notion had been embarrassment over having been caught in such a helpless state, but it had quickly shifted to gratitude. Rohan's winters were stern, and no one who had no urgent business outside would ever travel the icy, snow-covered plains willingly. Yet Aragorn – as Éomer still addressed his friend, and the King of Gondor still liked to be called, too – had saddled his horse as soon as he had heard of the unlucky incidents his friend and ally had been caught up in. Upon Éomer's inquiry, his Chief of the Royal Guard, had finally confessed that he had sent the messenger to Minas Tirith and Ithilien with the tidings of the King's illness, and his efforts had also brought another, long-missed visitor to Meduseld…

"Don't tell me you were planning to make it down to the marketplace all by yourself, brother!" a familiar – and most welcome – voice reached his ears from behind. Éomer couldn't help smiling as he turned around to face the former White Lady of Rohan and now Princess of Ithilien. "After all, I promised Gamling to look after you – and keep your mule-headed mind from random acts of stupidity!" She tightened the leather and fur-laced coat around her throat as she stepped up to her brother, thankful for the playful sparkle in Éomer's eyes. He had been in a far too gloomy mood these days for her taste.

"Random acts of stupidity!" he exclaimed now, indignant, pushing the thoughts he had been pondering into the back of his mind for later. "And you think that taking a breath of fresh air would qualify as that?"

"No," she smirked by taking his good arm and placing her delicate hand in his. "But a trip down the hill to the stables or the tavern all by yourself certainly would. How would you get up here again without my help?"

"Éowyn-" he started to object, but she only patted his fingers with a sly smile.

"The mighty King of Rohan will need to exercise a bit more patience yet before he can do as he pleases again. As for now, his fate is being destined by his better-knowing counsellors."

"Such as yourself," he laughed, thankful for her efforts at brightening his spirits, which were still mostly melancholic these days. But her presence helped. Having family around him helped, someone in whom to confide things he would never have told anyone else, not even Gamling or Elfhelm, as much as he trusted them. It still took much for Éomer to speak of the dreadful days of his captivity, to acknowledge his still lingering weakness and insecurity. Those were things he would never openly admit, except to his sister. The people of the Mark needed a strong king these days in order to overcome the aftermath of the War. He had to be strong – for them.

Many had been the days during the long winter months and the time of his illness when he had wished for Éowyn's presence. And miraculously, when he woke from his afternoon-sleep three days ago – embarrassing that he still needed it, like a small child! – she had been there at his side, sitting in the same chair Aragorn had occupied when he had first seen him during his surprising visit. At first he had taken her for a dream, but the touch of her hand as she had clasped his in loving affection had chased the doubts away. Yes indeed, his brave little sister, slayer of Sauron's mightiest weapon, had come all the way from warm, sunny Ithilien to the still cold Riddermark just for him. In the sensitive state he was still in, it had taken all of his composure not to fall into her arms weeping with joy at the sight… all the more as she had brought him the wonderful news that he would be an uncle, soon! Due in a little over four months time, she was already showing quite a bit, and the radiant glow surrounding her delicate features had spoken louder than words that his warrior-sister had finally accepted womanhood in all its glorious entirety. The sight of her in this happy, glowing state filled Éomer with joy, and he treasured every moment in her vibrant presence as he allowed her to slowly pull him away from the corner he had sought out for his lonely contemplations.

"Aye, such as myself," she rebuked, gently nudging his side. "I have always been smarter than you."

The hawk far above their heads screamed again and performed a sharp turn that carried him away towards the mountains. Silently, the two siblings followed his path for a while before Éowyn picked up the conversation again.

"There will come a time when you will be able to go as you please again, you know?" She gave his hand a brief tug as she steered her pensive brother towards the stairs. "Your confinement will end soon. I can tell you are as eager to take into the wild as a colt that has been forced to spend the entire winter in the stables." His gaze told her all she needed to know. "Speaking of which – Firefoot has missed you. The stable-hands told me this morning that they were having a difficult time with your stubborn Méara-mule. He actually bit one of them yesterday! Shall we go and tell him that he must not do that?"

Éomer could not help but smile. She was trying so hard… How much he had missed her!

"For the sake of our stable-hands, I believe we should."

The stairs. He had not walked them in months, and it felt a bit strange to bend his still shaky knees. He felt embarrassed for actually having to clutch his sister's arm to steady himself as a wave of dizziness washed over him, but she gave no sign that she had noticed his need. Grateful for her discretion, he gave her a slight squeeze… and saw her smile out of the corners of his eyes… and flinch!

"Oh…!" A sudden twitch, and then her fingers clenched _his_ arm for hold as she came to a halt on the last step of the stairs, the dark eyes widening in surprise as her free hand sought her slightly rounded stomach and pressed against it. Éomer turned in concern.

"What is it? Éowyn? Are you well?" She made a face, but nodded, a glow the king had not the words to describe lighting up her delicate features all of a sudden. "Éowyn?" Lines of concern appeared on his brow as he took a hold of his sister's shoulders to steady her. "Should I send for the healer?"

"No, no!" A dismissive gesture, and then suddenly unexpected, overjoyed laughter. "There is nothing to heal me of, brother. Wait!" She seized his hand and laid it on her belly, the dark eyes she shared with her older sibling firmly fixed on his. "Do you feel it?" At first, there was nothing put puzzlement in his expression, but suddenly, his face lit up and he looked down in wonder. "Do you-"

"Aye, I do!" he beamed, feeling an unruly excitement taking hold of him. "Is this the first time…?"

"Yes." She stared at him breathlessly, radiating a feminine beauty Éomer could not help but feel awed by. Placing her own hand next to his, Éowyn finally broke eye-contact and shook her head. "Oh, how I wish I could tell Faramir! He should have been here to feel his son move!"

"I can send a messenger," he offered, only half-jesting, and still feeling swept off his feet by his sister's open display of sheer, untainted happiness. This was so unlike the always distant, worried and tortured creature he had known almost all his life… and so much better! There was no question no anymore that the Prince of Ithilien was exactly what Éowyn had needed to heal, and he made a mental note to thank his brother-in-law as soon as they would meet again… presumably at his wedding. His wedding…

Still laughing, Éowyn shook her head as she lowly took up their walk again.

"No, please, spare the poor man. That would be too much. I will leave in a few days again, and when I am home, it shall be a wonderful surprise gift for my husband." She sighed wistfully as she pulled him along further in the direction of the royal stables. "Faramir was quite concerned about letting me go, but I suppose he understood that he would have had to confine me to the dungeon or fight me to keep me from coming to see you." Her fingers squeezed his arm affectionately. "I was horribly worried when that message came, Éomer, I cannot begin to tell you. I am so glad to see you finally getting better again…" She interrupted herself as she felt that their conversation was drifting towards the serious again. That had not been her intention, and so she directed their chatter towards a more pleasant topic again. "But tell me, brother, aren't you beginning to feel nervous about the events that will happen in your own life soon?"

He groaned. Of course she knew.

"I have faced treason, I have faced battle against thousands of orcs and other vile creatures, and there is nothing left anymore on Arda's beautiful face to put the fear of Eru into me… except for the thought of sharing the rest of my life with a woman I do not know yet. 'tis what you mean?"

Éowyn laughed.

"You worry for no reason, brother. I have already made your bride's acquaintance, and I firmly believe that the two of you will be an… interesting match." Her smile widened when she saw Éomer's all of a sudden urgent gaze.

"You have met her?"

"Aye… She is Faramir's cousin, as you know. We visit each other quite frequently. As someone who is not used to having a family, I was quite curious about getting to know my new relatives and could hardly wait. As it seems, she felt that way, too… and her three brothers just as well. You will get along well with them, I do not doubt that." Fully knowing how bad her brother was aching for more information, she nevertheless held back, just for the sake of teasing him. His quick glance showed her that he knew. They knew each other far too well to hide anything from the other.

"So…" he therefore shrugged, pretending nevertheless that the question's answer was only of mild interest to him. "What is she like?"

She nudged him in the side.

"Brother, please… you know I cannot tell you."

"You cannot?"

"A lady needs to have her secrets, of course," his sister lectured him, much in the manner of a stern teacher. "It is every husband's official task to uncover them, and would be most improper of me to tell. Let her surprise you." It was quite obvious that Éomer was not happy with her evasive answer, but she made it equally obvious to him that all further efforts of extracting information from her would be wasted by taking the distant neighing from the stables as an opportunity to suddenly turn away from her brother. "Now let us go and educate your impossible horse about the proper treatment of tender stable-hands, shall we?"

Playing the grumpy brother for a moment longer, Éomer let her steal his arm back again. Finally, he winked at her and allowed her to pull him along.

"Let us go. My counsellor has told me that good stable-hands are hard to come by these days…"

In the endless sky, the sun finally burst through the layer of clouds which had obstructed its bright and welcomed face, and bathed the day in a soft, golden light as Éowyn and her brother slowly walked down side by side along the path that led into the city below the Great Hall of Rohan…

THE END


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